


(Won't you walk with me) Into the Mouth of this Holler

by Cherlocked (cher69)



Series: The Mouth of this Holler [1]
Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton, Justified
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fleeting Raylan/Winona, Gargoyles - Freeform, Harpies, Homophobic Language, Justified/Anita Blake Fusion Fic, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Raylan/Boyd, Raylan is Anita, Tim is Edward, Vampires, Werewolves, Zombies, weredragon, wereleopard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 80,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7489947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cher69/pseuds/Cherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You'll never leave Harlan alive" takes on a whole new meaning when the undead population around Harlan County is steadily on the rise.<br/>Exiled back to Kentucky as a legal vampire executioner with the Preternatural Branch of the US Marshal's Service, Raylan must now face how much his hometown of Harlan has changed and unravel the mystery of a current rash in preternatural violence.  While working in Kentucky is Raylan's nightmare, the assignment is another chance to drag his favorite Super-SOG team specialist, the oh-so-tempting Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson, along as backup. As Raylan and Tim head into the mouth of the holler that is Harlan to raise a zombie or two, they can't help shaking loose a little bit of hell while they're at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fusion of _Justified's_ marshals in Anita Blake's world of vampires and monsters. Sorry, no Anita or Jean Claude here. Just the deputy marshals from _Justified_ playing in Anita's Blake's sandbox. Some of them harder and with less clothing at times than others. I don't own any of the characters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** technical edits made 1/13/17 (no content changes)  
> FYI -- for subscribers and dedicated readers -- I am running back through my fic reading from the beginning for continuity purposes for the rest of the series... I figure I have another 150K words in this series to go so I need to know my map going forward jives with what's come before. While I'm at it, I'm fixing the typos that are glaring and make me cringe. I beg your patience with me and hope you don't abandon me as subscribers, readers, etc from annoying notices that aren't *really* updates because I'm so not done. :)   
> xxoo

**Prologue:**

The Executioner and Death stood back to back while the warehouse walls around them burned from the floor up. Flames licked at the roof, and a nest of dead vampires smoldered at their feet.  

Death shrugged off the tank of an old-school flamethrower and tossed it as far as he could into the south wall of flames. 

“Got to go, Raylan. Nest is gonna blow.” He grabbed his partner by the elbow and tugged him in the other direction.

“Not yet. I don’t think we got ’em all. I think one’s still alive.” Raylan not only wouldn’t budge but was trying to move closer to something he must be sensing. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the singed undead, well, thanks to Tim’s flamethrower, the now dead undead. Singed or not.

“Won’t stay that way for long if he’s still here. C’mon, we got to go now,” Tim said, attempting to drag Raylan in the direction of north wall. “Or I’m gonna carry your skinny ass out of here.”

“Try it.”

Before Raylan could argue further, Tim stomped a boot down on Raylan’s, yanked his arm and pulled Raylan across his shoulders into a fireman’s carry with the tall marshal curled around his shoulders. Tim rolled with the momentum and barreled through the wall of flame in the opposite direction he’d thrown the tank. He didn’t stop running until the blast knocked them both forward to the ground.    

An hour later, Tim found Raylan on the bumper of an ambulance with his head stretched to the side trying not to hiss as an EMT poured holy water into a fresh bite gracing the apex where his long neck met his shoulder.

“Fire rescue only found seven bodies.” Tim leaned against one of the open doors at the back of the truck.

“I heard,” Raylan said. “Wouldn’t be doing this if we were sure the biter was dead.”

Tim had to admit, if only to himself, two points of admiration: he couldn’t blame the bloodsucker for not resisting that stretch of skin and long neck; and Raylan was a tough son of a bitch if he was enduring the acid burn of holy water with only a hiss. In the service, he’d seen preternatural special ops cuss, cry, scream, and even pass out during the treatment of an intentional vampire bite.

“Which one you think got away?” Tim asked.

“The boss, Bucks, probably,” Raylan said.

“Well, fuck. He was the one name on the execution warrant,” Tim said.

“AUSA’ll leave it be. They were good executions. Conspirators at least. Besides, they were threatening at least one of us. Probably both. That there’s enough to warrant deadly force. The kills were justified.”

The EMT interrupted. “Marshal Givens, I think it’s purified. I’m going to try the cross.”

Tim watched, fascinated as Raylan pulled in several long breaths, then assented to the test. The EMT touched the silver cross to the fanged bite. Raylan’s next breath was a relieved sigh. He thanked the woman, who was already putting the blessed cross back into her med kit, and stood up.

“Marshal Gutterson, did you have any injuries that need treatment?” The EMT asked, pausing before she closed the case.

“No Ma’am. Guess I don’t taste as good as Raylan here,” Tim said, almost smiling at the paramedic before locking down his features. “Nothing a stiff drink won’t fix.” He nodded good-bye and waved as he turned to trail Raylan to his car. 

Raylan popped the trunk, digging through a gym bag.  

“S’posed to tell you Dan wants to talk to us,” Tim said.

“Of course he does,” Raylan said, rummaging around to come up with a Marlan’s ballcap that he slipped onto his head, allowing the bill to shade his eyes, even though eastern sky was just beginning to alight with the first deep purple of dawn. “Burned my damned hat with your caveman bullshit, Tim.”

Tim snorted. “Wouldn’t’ve happened if you’d been wearing your helmet according to protocol.” And then he schooled his features again and finished, “You think that was my caveman bullshit?”

Raylan considered the question. “And you think my ass is skinny. How soon’s your flight?”

“Leaving in thirty for the airport. Need extra time to check my execution kit through, so we really need to check in with Dan.”

Raylan shook his head and followed Tim to meet with his chief.  After Dan chewed them both out for missing Bucks, Raylan walked Tim to his rental.

“You only come see me so you can shoot monsters,” Raylan accused.

The sun had risen enough for him to see clearly how Tim’s facial features stilled. Raylan waited for Tim’s Air-Force blue eyes to fall empty like they did when he talked about killing monsters—human and nonhuman alike. Tim didn’t meet his eyes, but held them on the collapsed, still-smoking warehouse where they’d come to serve the death warrant for Tommy Bucks.

“There’s that,” he allowed.

When Tim played opossum with his emotions, Raylan had learned the secret to divining his intent was to watch the sniper’s mouth. Sure enough, a bit of a pucker and a twitch, then a shadow of a smile broke through. Tim’s eyes were no longer empty when he let them drop to Raylan’s crotch, then scan up to his face. 

“Well, there’s not _just_ that,” Tim said.

“Tease.”

“Sure,” Tim said, then shrugged. The words agreed with Raylan’s assessment of his flirting, but the tone implied that maybe, just maybe, Tim wasn’t just teasing.

“Asshole.”

“That too.” Tim climbed into the rented SUV, and lowered the window. “Call me when you find Bucks again.”

Raylan nodded. “Sure, I’ll call.”

But he didn’t. When Raylan finally found Thomas Francis Buckley holding court on the rooftop of the Delano in Miami one night after sunset had faded all the dangerous light from the sky, he picked up his gun instead of his cell phone. Raylan made good on the open execution warrant for Bucks by putting two silver bullets into the cartel master vamp. One in Buck’s heart and the other in his brain—in full view of a civilian audience. Word quickly got around the undead community that the Executioner had gotten himself a brand new cowboy hat and yet another kill-notch on his belt. The news vans and cell phone footage made sure the mundane residents in Miami, far and wide, also heard about the violence of the public execution. A YouTube vid circulating captured a tall cowboy shooting open the skull of a vampire. Raylan found himself exiled back to Kentucky a week later, his new hat in hand and unhappy as all hell.

 

**Chapter 1**

 

 

Raylan knocked back a double shot of bourbon and flipped through the pages in the case file on the bar in front of him. He remembered Boyd Crowder well. 

“Yeah, we had fair deal in common. Mean daddies, digging coal, and…” Raylan stopped flicking his finger at the picture, realizing maybe Art Mullen didn’t really want to know everything about his and Boyd Crowder’s shared past. While Raylan had known Art since they worked together at Glenco in Georgia and considered him a friend, his new chief didn’t know a whole lot about Raylan’s personal history.

Art knew well him well enough to notice the evasion though. “And what Raylan?”

“Oooh, nothing much. Just… well, you know when I was a kid, before my mother taught me control? Sometimes dead animals would, you know, follow me. Home. Or around.”

“This is some of that animator shit?” 

“Yeah, thing was Boyd was one of the few kids around my age who it didn’t bother.”

“Oh that’s spectacular. You’re saying he’s got a thing for dead animals. That’s some serial killer shit right there, Raylan.”

“Naw, nothing like that. Just, you know… Boyd was…,” Raylan paused trying to fine the right word and couldn’t think of a better one, “…tolerant.”

Art laughed a little, then took a long draw on his drink. “He’s not anymore. Boyd Crowder runs the Harlan chapter of People First.”

“Really now?” Raylan pushed his hat back. Boyd running a local human supremacist group. There were a couple out there—Humans First being the more violent among them. They were a splinter group of Humans Against Vampires that lobbied to repeal vampire rights to restore unsanctioned vampire executions. Humans First had the same agenda, only they took things into their own hands without waiting for law reform.

 “Wouldn’t have had him figured for that. So you think the vampire deaths around Harlan, they’re related to a hate group?” Raylan asked.

“Best place to start as any. Lot of people in coal country developed a streak of hate for vampires when the coal companies started hiring the newly dead a few years back,” Art said, then sipped his drink.

“Huh. Hadn’t realized they were doing that.”

“Lots of changes Raylan.”

“I imagine,” Raylan said, but he didn’t mean it. He’d always imagined Kentucky exactly as it’d always been. “I got out… and I just didn’t look back until now.”

“And that’s only because we’re making you,” Art said.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“So, this animator thing, you’re still into that?”

“Can’t not be into it,” Raylan said, and tapped on the bar before pointing to his glass, giving the cute bartender a shade of a smile.

“I thought you were just executing death warrants these days for the preternatural branch,” Art said.

“Well, sure that’s the fun part of preternatural marshalin’.  But if I don’t raise some zombies now and then, the power… it kind of spills over.”

“Great. You just raise a zombie every time your balls itch?” Art said.

“No, Art. I scratch them. I have an animation agent… pretty woman, Candice. Folks call her, she calls me, I raise their dead, and they give us both a whole lot of money.”

“Thought Uncle Sam frowned on marshals moonlighting.”

“He frowns more on roadkill wandering into his marshals’ offices.”

“Nice. I hope we don’t have that to look forward to.”

“At least there’s no gators around here. Gator zombies are the worst.”

Art laughed. “Good point.”

“Besides sometimes it comes in handy to be able to question witnesses who’ve passed on. I do a lot of court work. Keeps the crazies at bay. It’s hard to take someone’s money for raising their dead when I have to turn around an arrest them for some nefarious ulterior motive.”

“Get a lot of that?” Art’s expression grew tight with the question.

“It happens,” Raylan said. “Court work just feels like it fits with the job better. You know, wills, undead testimony. Makes for exciting nights sitting around a graveyard getting mosquito bit while lawyers argue over a dead man’s money.”

“True what they say, I suppose, you can’t take it with you. So you raise zombies and kill vampires.”

“Only the bad ones.”

Art gave Raylan a dubious look.

“Hey, Bucks was justified. We had a duly sworn warrant of execution on him,” Raylan said. Then he pointed to the scars on his neck. “And look, he bit me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I tend to stay away from other preternatural kills. Worked some magical malfeasance cases. I know some marshals in the preternatural division who take on lycanthropes if there’s cause. So, what’s the lay of the land in Lexington? You got at least five vampires killed in Harlan and a city this size is just… quiet, fine, rolling along all peaceful?”

“What can I say, Raylan?  Must be the difference between city vampires and hillbilly vamps. The Lexington vamps are all civilized business vampires. They try to keep down anything that would draw bad press their way.”

“Hmm,” Raylan said. “What kind of business the locals into?”

Art shrugged. “A little bit of everything. Some real estate and development. Then you have your typical freak-show touristy stuff. Dance clubs, titty bars. Again, they tend to keep their shit together. Harlan, though… the place is suddenly a hotbed of violence against vampires.”

“How you get this in your lap? Harlan is a ways off,” Raylan said. The county rode the southern border of the state—the county seat of Harlan was a good three-hour drive from Lexington.

“The southern offices in Kentucky don’t have preternatural marshals,” Art said.

“But neither do you,” Raylan pointed out.

“Well, until now I didn’t,” Art said. “Now we have you.”

“Great,” Raylan said. “I’m never getting back to Miami at this rate.”

Art laughed. “I’m thinking maybe you and Rachel can head down this week and have a talk with Boyd. Feel him out a little.” 

“It’s a place to start.”

***

Raylan liked Rachel and figured he’d probably always feel a little guilty for the way their first day working together went.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** technical edits 1/13/17 (no content changes)  
> xxox

Raylan admired Rachel as a professional, even liked her personally. And he really, really hadn’t meant to nearly kill the woman on their first shared assignment.

They had left from the courthouse a lot later in the day than Raylan planned. One meeting ran into another. Kentucky was the last place Raylan wanted to be: the office was small, the coffee was for shit, but his fellow marshals seemed like good people. Not one of them was experienced in hardcore preternatural law enforcement though, and none of them were licensed executioners. They’d been to the seminars and took the classes, but most of them didn’t even carry silver-plated ammo. Raylan was used to working with the likes of Tim Gutterson, a marshal from the Super-SOG division, on preternatural cases. He missed his expertise and wished he could get Art to call him in. But the Super-SOG guys typically were reserved for high-profile cases.

The drive to Harlan from Lexington would hit right at three hours—depending on what part of the county they were heading to. They’d decided before they left that the most logical place to start was with Boyd’s Humans First meeting that evening.

“You know where we’re going?” Raylan asked as they turned off the Interstate toward town.

“Of course. We didn’t just start policing Harlan because you came home, Raylan,” she said.

Raylan barely kept a smirk off his face; she had spunk. “Policing, huh? The Lexington office covers that in the traditional marshal purview these days?”

“I thought you were from here Raylan. When was Harlan ever traditional?”

“Point.”

“We get called for lots of preternatural crime down this way. London and Pikeville don’t have anyone with preternatural experience.”

Raylan wondered if he was the only marshal in the entire state licensed to take down a rogue vampire if it came to it.

“There weren’t that many monsters here when I was growing up…” Raylan started. “Well, besides my father.”

“Daddy issues huh?”

Raylan sat up without answering as the scenery changed. They were rolling through one of the older mining areas he remembered as ramshackle and abandoned when he was a teenager but this was now all built up and tourist oriented—advertising tours of the Vampire Mines of Bloody Harlan with real vampire miners.

“None of this used to be here,” Raylan said. “Do people actually pay to go into a mine with a vampire?”

“A lot has probably changed since you left,” Rachel said. “Vampire tourism is big business and supports the other tourism businesses in the county. Zip line during the day; tour historic mines with vampire miners at night. This is one of the reasons why they’re so concerned about the vampire killings. Some are concerned that it’s only a matter of time before humans end up as collateral.”

“Not to mention vampires have the same rights as human under the law,” Raylan said.

“They do,” Rachel said. “How old are you anyway?”

Raylan eyed her from under his hat. “You gonna answer me if I ask you the same?”

“Nope.” Rachel smiled.

“Didn’t think you’d be one to buy into a sexist double-standard like that?”

“I’m not. I’m just trying to figure out if vampires were public knowledge well before you left Harlan.”

“They were and other creatures, too. ’Sides, that kind of knowledge ran in the family, if you know what I mean… it’s hard to come from long line of animators and not have a damned good idea of what goes bump in the night,” Raylan said.

“Which side did you get your gift from?”

Raylan smiled. He’d known he liked Rachel; few people ever called raising the dead a gift.

“My mother was a practitioner. The power ran through some of the Grant line. My Aunt Helen dabbles. Might be some of my mother’s family in the hills who have some ability. They keep pretty much to themselves,” he said. “Or well, they used to. I don’t know now. Like you said, a lot could have changed. Good money in animation these days.” 

Raylan tried to imagine his mother’s cousins coming down from the hills to raise zombies for money from the kinds of wealthy clients Candice sent his way in Miami; he just couldn’t see it.

Rachel pulled up to the church where the website said the local Humans First group met that evening.  She parked and didn’t budge.

“Meeting ends at seven. Maybe we should wait for it to wrap up,” Rachel said.

Raylan laughed and got out of the car. He adjusted his hat and looked in at her. “Oh, but aren’t you curious? I gotta hear this.”

***

Raylan and Rachel hung on the back wall of the meeting hall. It looked like the kind of pavilion that churches added to hold dinners and the other kind of social crap Raylan didn’t take part in. He knew he was a believer—it was hard to fight vampires and not be a true believer. If you didn’t believe in something ultimate, trying to fight a vampire with a related holy item made you little more than cannon fodder.  Yes, Raylan was a true believer, but he wouldn’t call himself a faithful one.

Boyd Crowder stood at the front of the room ranting to a group of people sitting in metal folding chairs.

Physically, he’d aged and lost some hair. But Boyd still had his charisma.

Humans First was a hate group—hating everything other than humans. They’d branched off Humans Against Vampires a good ten or fifteen years before. Where HAV would fight for human rights through legal means… trying to draft and push laws that limited the freedoms of vampires and other preternatural creatures, Humans First took the next step into extremism with riots and even vigilante vampire executions. Humans First went for the jugular. They wanted to roll back to the old days when executing vampires was like gunfighting in the Wild West. It should have been an idea that appealed to Raylan, given the number of legitimate vampire executions to his name. But when it came down to it, Humans First counted Raylan among the monsters. There was also the matter that Raylan didn’t hate all vampires. They were people—just walking dead ones, and people had rights. Now, if those people went around killing other people, that was a whole other matter. Since you couldn’t cage a vampire in a prison like Big Sandy or any other prison in the current penal system, execution was the first, best, longest-standing punishment for vampires who broke the law. Raylan hadn’t always agreed with the laws, but since the High Court had ruled down on the vampire three stikes law—that vampires who committed any three laws could be executed—Raylan felt better about the execution warrants he took on. 

Raylan watched Boyd notice him and send a blindingly toothy smile in his direction bright enough that Raylan wondered if the shine alone might deter some of the newly dead. He leaned down and whispered to Rachel.

 “This could go a could a couple ways. Either he sees me as the Executioner…”

“Or?” Rachel whispered back.

“Or one of the monsters. Animators aren’t real popular with these folks.”

“Good to know,” Rachel nodded and Raylan noticed her right hand fall to rest at her hip near her weapon.   

“Well, if it isn’t the Executioner himself, right here in our humble Harlan chapter of Humans First!” Boyd called out, spreading both arms wide.

Murmurs in the crowd started. There were only about twenty people in the audience—but that was twenty people early evening on a Monday night.

Raylan pressed his lips together, and Rachel shifted, standing instead of leaning against the wall. On alert. 

“Folks—you know Raylan Givens, right? From right here in Harlan,” Boyd said. “Some of you know and some of you might not know—that Raylan here is a gen-u-ine deputy US marshal, es-specializing in killing vampires. He’s so good at it the vampires have a special name for him—the Executioner.” Boyd began clapping, and the crowd joined him.

Boyd gestured with his hands for the crowd to stand. “Up people. Why if anything deserves a standing ovation, I’d think having the Executioner right here attending a Harlan Humans First meeting would qualify.”

The scrape of twenty some metal chairs against linoleum came close to drowning out any clapping sent in Raylan’s direction.

“Now, Boyd. I’m not here for that. We’re here on official marshal business,” Raylan called out as the din began to die down a bit as the group found their feet. While Rachel’s stance had accommodated the threat in the room, Raylan still leaned on the back wall—for all outward appearances, relaxed.

“Can you tell the good people of Harlan how many bloodsuckers you killed to date Raylan?” Boyd asked.

“I don’t think I can.” Raylan stood away from the wall.  

“Why, that many Raylan?” Boyd asked.

“No, Boyd. I’ve killed enough. Enough fast, strong, ancient undead creatures guilty of crimes that it’d probably cause someone who was say, human, to maybe pause and want to think strongly about what they were undertaking if they’d decided to take the law into their own hands and kill a vampire without the sworn duty to do so.”

“Why Marshal Givens, are you trying to get a point across here?” Boyd asked, a wide smile on his face.

“If you think so, Boyd. I think Deputy US Marshal Brooks and I are going to adjourn outside for the remainder of your meeting,” Raylan said. “Not wanting to interrupt your hate speech and all. When you wrap things up here Boyd, we’d like a word.” Raylan tipped his hat and hit the door, with Rachel backing out behind him.

Raylan and Rachel ended up sitting on the hood of her town car, waiting for the meeting to end. 

“They really call you the Executioner?” Rachel asked.

“They do,” Raylan nodded and chewed on the thought for a moment. “Mostly the name’s like a bedtime story to scare little baby vampires into behaving if they grow up to be mean and break laws, they might end up a name on my next warrant of execution.”

“Right,” Rachel scoffed, scrolling through the email on her phone. “You’re the vampire boogeyman.”

“You don’t believe me?” Raylan pushed back his hat and gave Rachel a long look.

“Oh, it’s not that. I just think you might like the name as much as Boyd seems to.”

“I don’t introduce myself that way,” Raylan said. “But it serves a purpose. I got a buddy on the marshal Super-SOG team they call Death because of all the kills he had working preternatural special ops in the military. Fear can be a powerful weapon, Rachel.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

The meeting broke up not long after that. As some of the attendees spilled into the evening, some of them took out their phones, snapping pictures of Raylan and Rachel. 

Rachel mumbled to Raylan. “Great, we’ll be trending hashtag-KY-Marshals-Love-Humans-First by breakfast tomorrow.”

“Probably sooner than that,” Raylan agreed.

One of men from the group veered off.  He had spiky dark blond hair with a mullet and wore torn, faded fatigues, with a necklace made of teeth layered over his Humans First next tattoos. He approached them, giving Rachel a wide berth.

“You’re the one they call Executioner?”

Raylan squinted and nodded. “Believe so. And you are?”

“Dewey. I’m Dewey Crowe,” he answered. “I was wonderin’ if I could get a selfie with you. My cousins in Florida’ll never believe it. The Executioner! Right here in Harlan.”

“What part of Florida?” Raylan asked.

“What?” Dewey said.

Rachel watched quietly.

“Your kin. What part of Florida are they from?”

“Belle Glade. Why?”

“Hmm.” Raylan nodded. “I expect they’d probably believe it, then. You buy that necklace or take that gator in a legal hunt?”

“No. I hunted her down, shot her with a bangstick, and ate her tail,” Dewey said, proudly.

Raylan reached out and touched one of the teeth. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Not a shifter; just a gator. His power worked better at full dark, but he thought it was far enough past dusk to get enough of a sense of the animal’s death to shock Dewey. 

“You’re a liar and a damned coward Dewey Crowe.”

“Hey, man, you don’t gotta be an asshole about it. If you don’t want to take a selfie, all you gotta do is say so.”

“You shot that gator in captivity in a gator farm—like shooting fish in a barrel. Didn’t even give her a chance to fight.”

“How’d you know that?” Dewey asked. “What are you, man?”

“Put away a boy from Belle Glade by the name of Crowe—Dale, Jr. for keeping weregators in captivity.”

“No way he told you. He wasn’t even around that day…” Dewey said.

Raylan rolled his eyes. “You haven’t been killing vampires around Harlan, now have you Mr. Crowe? I’m not going to see you’ve added fangs next to those gator teeth next time we roll through Harlan, am I?”

“Jesus Christ, man. I thought you’d be cool, but you’re kind of a dick. I don’t think I want my picture with you.”

“Just as well. Tell me about your tattoos, Mr. Crowe,” Raylan said. He pointed the words “Humans First” scrawled around Dewey’s neck.

Dewey backed away. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

“That may be so, today, but we could fix that, couldn’t we Deputy US Marshal Brooks?”

Rachel tapped on her phone, but kept an eye on Raylan and Dewey. “Working on a warrant now.”

“Mr. Crowe, this tattoo around your neck. You know what that says to a vampire?”

“It’s says they’d better stay the hell away if they know what’s good for ’em,” Dewey replied, his tone sure and indignant.

“I was thinking it said something more along the lines of ‘Bite me,’” Raylan said.

“Jesus Christ. That’s what I just said,” Dewey said, then turned and stalked off.

Rachel rolled her eyes, and Raylan tried not to laugh.

***

About that time, Boyd strolled up with his hand out. Raylan took it, and the two men folded into a one-armed, back-patting hug. Rachel raised her eyebrows but kept quiet.

“Well, if it isn’t Raylan Givens, the pied piper of roadkill, come to darken my door. Come to amend your ways and your doings, Raylan?” Boyd said.

“Ah, remember that, do you Boyd?” Raylan asked.

“Hard to forget a thing like that. You still raising the dead?” Boyd asked.

“Well, in the name of the law mostly. You know Deputy US Marshal Brooks, don’t you Boyd?” Raylan gestured to Rachel.

“I believe we’ve had the honor. You getting any closer to finding out who killed those miners? Don’t want to lose any of the last human miners we have left in Harlan next.”

“We’re exploring all avenues, Mr. Crowder,” Rachel answered.

“So Boyd, speaking of miners being targeted, since when do you hate everything non-human?”

“Well, Raylan, you haven’t been around in a long time. Harlan has had a resurgence in its mining community. Only problem is that all the work is going to dead men. The mining companies figured out you can’t kill vampires by hiring them to mine. So instead of those jobs going to human miners who’ve been in Harlan for generations, they go to the dead. When you’re already dead, black lung really ain’t much of an issue.”

“Hmm. You don’t say. I thought most of those mines were tapped out. I saw that up near Wallins Creek was rebuilt when we drove into town. Vampire mining tours?” Raylan said.

“Yes. And several other areas. What was deemed too dangerous for human mining isn’t for the undead.”

 “So you figure if you hate the miners, the companies will change their minds and hire only humans?”

“As the name says, Humans First. Humans were here first and broke their backs in those mines. Doesn’t seem right that humans can’t hire on anymore,” Boyd said.

“Vampires can’t work in the daytime, Boyd. Surely they have to go with a human workforce then,” Raylan said.

“Vampires aren’t the only kind of creature attracting the mining companies,” Boyd said.

“They’re hiring weres, too?” Raylan asked.

“Among others.”

Raylan wasn’t sure what others Boyd would be referencing so he shifted the discussion. “You still a powder man, Boyd?”

“Why Raylan, I’m flattered you remembered. But no, no more. Can’t get work in the mines between the vampires and the zombies.”

“What a minute. What zombies?” Raylan stopped him.

“Well, just because a vampire is thirty feet underground when they sun goes down, he still goes to sleep. Like you said, they can’t work the day shift. For a while, they hired humans, but more and more that work is going to lycanthropes and zombie labor.”

“Christ…  I thought there was legislation, oversight to stop that kind of—” Raylan didn’t get any further before his cell phone went off, followed by Rachel’s. “Excuse me.”

Rachel picked up her phone, spoke quietly, and then hung up. “We’ve got to go. There was an explosion out by Martins Fork mine.”

Raylan had a puzzled look on his face as he looked between Boyd and Rachel.

“Well, I guess chewing the fat with two gen-u-ine deputy US Marshals gives me a pretty good alibi, don’t you think?”

“Boyd. We’ll be seeing you,” Raylan said and headed for the car.

“I’ll be looking forward to it Marshals!” Boyd called out behind them.

***

The explosion had caused a collapse right after the night shift started. The mining foreman said at least fifteen vampire miners were crushed or trapped in the fall out. Since law dictated that vampires were people, and people had rights, the mine emergency techs and search and rescue were out in force trying to unearth the trapped miners. At first, they didn’t have much luck, but after Raylan convinced them he could use his powers as an animator, his necromancy, as a vampire divining tool, they hit on more and more buried miners.

“I didn’t know animators could sense the dead,” Rachel commented after they’d found a small group of vampires behind a collapsed wall. 

Raylan thought about his answer before replying. He didn’t tell people he was a necromancer. They accepted animator. Necromancer came with host of evil connotations. “Not all can, I guess it’s just something I got from my mother,” Raylan said.

Initially, Raylan had tried to get Rachel to stay above ground, but she wanted to be on hand to try to get any information out of the recovered miners she could.

They were about three hours into the rescue operation when they ran into trouble. They’d recovered several groups of vampires buried in rubble, but they were getting closer to the seat of the explosion.

Raylan led the way, stretching out with his senses to feel where there were undead when he got the biggest hit of the night.

“Feels like there’s about five trapped down this way,” Raylan said. He turned to report his feelings to Rachel, the MET, and the rescue leader they were working with. He’d ask them to keep some distance between them so he could get a better mental scan of the area. That and their lights messed with his night vision.

He waited while they closed the distance gap, coming up on his heels.  

Raylan hated being underground—if he’d had any choice in the matter he never would have set foot in another mine in his lifetime. He was getting ready to turn back around when he heard a growl.

“Goddamn. Sounds like five is right. Only not quite as trapped as we thought,” Raylan said. “Rachel, remember that conversation we had in the office this morning about preternatural accoutrements? I think it’d be a fine time for you to head back on up.”

“No way Raylan,” she said.

“Last chance Rachel,” he said.

The search and rescue leader backed away. “If she’s not willing to run, I am.”

“Don’t!” Raylan shouted, but it was too late. The man did the two things at once sure to draw a predator: he ran scared—fear pheromones filling the immediate vicinity and leaving a trail in his wake.

“Rachel. Go after him. Use your cross. Shoot for the head and the heart. You can incapacitate the vamp enough to make him easier to kill later,” he said, knowing that as a regular deputy US marshal, she had standard bullets in her weapon. Rachel was one of the marshals from the Lexington office who didn’t carry silver bullets.

Raylan was left with four vampires to sort out while Rachel ran back to assist the search and rescue leader. In the meantime, an MET caught up to Raylan.

“If you have a cross, get it out,” Raylan said quietly.

“All right boys. This doesn’t have to end badly. I get that you’re spooked but we’re down here to get you out of this mess,” he said.

As Raylan moved closer and got a better look at the four vampires, they’d been listening to him, cocking their heads as if they recognized his voice but not the words. He saw that there was something wrong with their eyes. They’d turned a molten silver shade. 

“Shit,” he said. “Silver nitrate bomb.” He knew it wouldn’t have killed them but it would make them irreconcilably crazy. Had they been shifters, lycanthropes, they’d be dead.

As vampires, they wouldn’t heal the damage. They’d have to be put down. Gutterson was known to inject his bullets with silver nitrate on an execution that required special ops. He thought again, as he did that morning, that he wished he’d had Tim at his back.  A few dead vampires in a hillbilly town still hardly warranted pulling Tim into town.  

He heard a garbled scream from the direction he’d sent Rachel. The search and rescue leader, it sounded like. He hoped she was holding her own. 

“All right. Now which of you is most in control, do you think?” Raylan said, keeping his voice smooth and easy like he was calming a child or a wild dog. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called a vampire whisperer; it wouldn’t be the last.

He reached out with his mind feeling their ages. None of them were more than a few years dead.  They’d be slow, well, slow compared to some of the master vampires he’d gone up against. The trick was he needed to put down all four of them in fairly quick succession. There’d be no coming back from this for them; execution was unavoidable. Even if he got them out and into custody, he’d be putting them down before dawn.

Touching them with his necromancy, he pushed to see if he could roll them a touch, mentally, like vampires rolled humans. It wasn’t something he let on that he could do, but it might slow them down enough for him to put a round in each vampire.

“Can you raise a cross to these guys?” Raylan said to the MET at his back. “You sure it’s okay for me to shoot in here?”

“Underground mines have sophisticated ventilation systems now. Fire away,” the MET said.

While the MET backed the vampires away with the glow of his cross, Raylan pushed and felt their minds muddle, then he heard Rachel scream, breaking his focus. His weapon was out before he thought of it, hammering shots in each vampire. Two went down. A third rushed Raylan and the MET but couldn’t get close with cross’s glow aimed at him. Raylan leveled a second shot toward that vamp’s head. The fourth looked blankly at him, and it hurt Raylan’s heart to put a bullet through his eye. They were all victims, too.

Raylan leveled another round of head shots at each fallen vampire for good measure and took off after Rachel when he heard a shot ring out from her direction.

He found the search and rescue leader first, ravaged with a neck bite and his throat torn out. 

“Jesus Christ,” he said. He slowed his approach. “Rachel?”

He listened. He mentally felt for anything undead to no avail. Then, he heard her: hiccupping and choking back a sob. 

“I’m here. It’s clear. He’s dead, but I’m down.”

Raylan found her covered in blood. She had a viscous bite on her neck and a dead vampire missing a good part of his skull draped over her. The MET crouched down to her.

“I think he dislocated my shoulder and broke my arm,” she said. “Can you get him off—of—me?”

“Goddamn,” Raylan said. He dragged the vampire off of her body. No point in inviting insult to join injury. He knew she didn’t carry silver bullets in her service weapon, but she’d made the best of what she had. The silver bullet issue was something that would change if he was going to be around very long. 

She handed him her gun, handle first. “Can you hold this while you help me up?” she asked Raylan.

“I don’t think you should move, Deputy,” the MET said.

“Oh hell no,” Rachel held the hand from her good arm out to Raylan.

“Sure,” he said. Then he pulled her to her feet.

The MET asked her again not to move. “I can call for the paramedics. You look like you lost some blood. They’ll get you a stretcher.”

“My gun?” She made a grabby-handed gesture toward Raylan ignoring the MET, and he handed her weapon over.

“I know you don’t know me yet cowboy, but I am walking my ass out of here. Unless I pass out. And if I pass out, your job is to bring me around so I can start walking again.”

“Yes ma’am,” Raylan said. 

The MET grumbled about stubborn marshals.

“Are all the vampires dead or accounted for?” Rachel asked.

“Think so. I promise to shoot any who try to bite you.”

“Do I look like I need a hero?” she said.

Raylan smiled. “No Ma’am.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** technical edits 1/13/17 & 1/27/17 (thank you Jonjo)  
>  (no content changes either time)

Raylan left the locals to the mine cleanup and took Rachel to the Harlan ER himself because she refused an ambulance.

It was close to dawn before they’d cleared her to go—her arm in a cast and a sling, her dislocated shoulder back in place, her bite cleaned but not purified. Raylan was thankful she’d already been drugged up enough that he could convince the doctors the torture of purifying her bite wasn’t necessary without her insisting she could take it. Her bite was just that—a bite. The vampire that did the honors was dead—permanently—and even if he wasn’t he hadn’t had the power to roll her mind. None of the vampires in that shaft were more than a few years old. The vampire that bit her wasn’t going to show up outside her window one night to take over her mind or follow up his bite with a second. 

Raylan dropped Rachel by her house, then headed into the office to bring Art up to speed.

“So you tried to kill Rachel already?” Art sat behind his desk needling him. He couldn’t tell if the chief was kidding or serious—or maybe both.

“She’s tough, Art. I don’t think you can drag that woman anywhere she doesn’t want to go,” Raylan said.

“Fair point.”

“She needs some silver bullets if she’s heading back to Harlan. At least.”

“Sounds like she did all right with the plain old lead kind,” Art said.

“This time,” Raylan said. “But none of those vamps were more than three years dead at the most. And weak—not a hint of power.”

“But crazy as batshit? Isn’t that why you put them down?”

“Tests from the bomb will confirm it was a silver nitrate bomb. The vampires nearest the blast weren’t killed by it, but driven mad. The others further out from the epicenter of the explosion were just trapped.”

“Huh. So, you accomplished nearly killing Rachel and giving Boyd Crowder an airtight alibi.”

“I wouldn’t call it airtight,” Raylan said. “He could have ordered it done.”

“That’s going to be harder to prove,” Art said.

“Yeah. Either way, something ugly is going on down there.”

“When isn’t it?”

“Fair enough.”

Art handed Raylan a piece of paper. “You got a call yesterday. Candice? She says you aren’t answering your cell phone.”

Raylan took the message. “Animation agent. Probably has some local zombie for me to raise.”

“Speaking of… you know an Ava Crowder?”

“Knew an Ava Randolph. Which Crowder she marry?”

“That’s the thing. Bowman. But two weeks ago today, she took a shotgun to him over supper. Said she was afraid he was going to kill her,” Art said.

Raylan chewed on the information. “And you want me to raise Bowman?”

“I think he might be an enlightening conversationalist for a dead man,” Art answered.

“He could be. He could also be so pissed off at Ava for murdering him, he’d just be rabid. Murder victims can go either way—usually the bad way. If we keep Ava away from the graveyard and I convince him she’s already dead, it might be worth a shot. If he knows anything, he’ll tell us,” Raylan said. “We’ll need a court order—which might be difficult since we’re just fishing. Otherwise we need the next of kin to sign off.”

“Ava is next of kin. I think I can arrange something with the DA in charge of her case to ensure her cooperation,” Art said.

“I need backup with preternatural experience if I’m going down there to raise a zombie—especially a murder victim in case the zombie is out of control,” Raylan said. “I also shouldn’t question him. I can raise him and order him to talk, but he’d be too malleable to my questioning. I need someone else asking the questions who can’t control the zombie if you want to build a case with this information.”

“I’ll work on the warrants and your backup. In the meantime, stay out of Harlan.”

“So speaking of stubborn women and batshit crazy…” Art began.

When Raylan didn’t reply, Art finished. “Winona was here looking for you.”

“What the hell is she doing in Kentucky?”

“Court reporter.”

Raylan nodded like that made sense.

“I get the stubborn women correlation. Winona is that if nothing else. But you lost me on the batshit crazy…”  Raylan said.

“Oh, not Winona. Her husband, Gary? He got himself turned a couple years ago. Word is there’s trouble at home.”

“Turned? Like to a vampire or a lycanthrope?” Raylan said.

“Oh he’s a vampire all right.”

“Great. Is he still a realtor?”

“Can’t say as I know,” Art answered. He passed Raylan a slip of paper. “But if you call Winona back and ask her, I’m sure she’d tell you.”

***

Raylan pulled around the estate house, driving back to the Hooks family cemetery. Raising zombies in other states for all the years he been gone, Raylan had forgotten that so many family cemeteries still existed in Kentucky. Growing up with his own family plot a stone’s throw from the house made him force the practice out of his mind. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on. He wondered how well the family plots were kept up in the area. If the grounds, once consecrated, got old enough or changed due to misuse, those plots could become prone to ghoul infestation. He made a mental note to check the local area for an increase in ghoul activity. He wondered if anyone had written an article for "Animator Quarterly" about the correlation between family plots and instances of ghoul contamination.

The children from the first marriage of the third Demetrius Hooks were arguing with his second wife over the division of his assets. At the moment, they were quiet, huddled separately with their lawyers. Apparently, the third Demetrius was unlike the first and second Demetrius before him and didn’t believe in planning ahead. The family had decided it was just cheaper to pay Raylan and lawyers to arbitrate than it would be to contest the will.

Raylan parked near the headstones. He pulled the caged chicken from the trunk, along with his animator’s bag and headed over to join the group.

The family was gathered along with the lawyers and a court reporter setting up a stenography machine. As he got closer, he noticed the court reporter was his ex-wife Winona.

Raylan walked up to her and touched her shoulder. “Winona, what are you doing back in Kentucky?”

She jumped. “Oh Raylan! You scared me. You’re the animator tonight?”

He nodded. “They transferred me to the Lexington marshal’s office for a while.”

“I heard. I didn’t know you’d still be raising zombies.”

“Yep. You know how it gets if I don’t…” Raylan trailed off. 

He knew Winona remembered. By the time he was married to her, he’d had his power under control, but still it had taken some adjusting on her part to get used to his affinity with the dead.

“If you’re animating tonight, I need to recuse myself.”

He nodded. “Yes, sorry, you do.”

After a short talk with the family’s lawyers, they called in another court reporter. Paying another court reporter would be less than the fee of twenty-five grand that Raylan knew Candice had collected in advance. It would take a substitute reporter an hour, at least, to get there.

Raylan and Winona took shelter from the cool night air in his Marshal-issued town car. 

“Art said Gary is a vampire now,” Raylan said.

Winona sighed. “I don’t know where he got the idea… I think he thought that being a vampire would come with all the glamour that goes along with the all the famous vampires in the media.”

“Being dead just makes you dead, not richer or prettier or more famous.”

“I told him that.”

“Did you tell him I used to say that?” Raylan asked.

“Yes, it’s probably part of why he ignored the point,” Winona said.

“Art said you needed to talk to me,” Raylan said.

“It’s Gary. He’s into something bad with one of the vampires who turned him.”

“Criminal bad or just undead politics bad?”

“Those are both bad.”

“Yes, but only one is the kind of bad enough that I have to do something about it. Vampires scheme Winona. It’s what they do. The old ones don’t live that long without becoming manipulative megalomaniacal assholes.”

“And if I think the bad is criminally bad enough for you to do something about it?”

“Then we’ll call Art. But don’t stay around to find out. If it’s bad with Gary, leave him. Move on. His turning during your marriage if you aren’t on board with it is grounds for divorce in a lot of states.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Raylan shook his head. “I don’t know Winona. Maybe? This,” he waved his hand between them, “has always felt complicated as shit.”

About that time, the replacement court reporter showed, and Raylan went out to draw his power circle and raise his zombie. He was surprised that Winona trailed behind him, standing at a discreet distance while he sacrificed the chicken, drew the power circle, raised the zombie and allowed it to suck some of his blood from a shallow cut he made on his arm. The graphic element in his animation work always put Winona off.

While the lawyers questioned the zombie, Winona waited with him.

“I thought I’d never forget how that salve smells on you,” Winona said. “But it doesn’t even smell the same anymore.”

“Surprised you can smell it at all. The ritual always seems to use it up, like the magic soaks it off my skin.” Raylan raised his arm and sniffed. “I reworked my recipe since you lef… since we were together. Started using some essential oils. Feels less gritty.” He used to use a combination of graveyard mold mixed with everyday spices in varying amounts like rosemary, cinnamon, cloves, sage, and thyme. His mother taught him, using either what she had in the cabinet or could grow in the yard. The Internet made all that easier. He could order essential oils online instead, some that smelled more masculine and less like he was seasoned Sunday ham but had the same protective qualities. The salve had to contain graveyard mold, but it didn’t have to leave a trail of herbs across his face.

“I think some of it seeps into you. When you raise a lot of zombies, you used to smell somewhere between Italian sausage and apple pie.”

Raylan laughed. “I’ve got some cedarwood in there now, some juniper and vetiver. Smells more… macho than apple pie.” He held out his arm.

“Very nice. Thinking of branching out, bottling and selling it?” Winona said.

“Nah. I think the grave mold would be a real turn-off.”

Not long after that the lawyers waved him over indicating they were finished. Raylan finished the ritual, tossing some salt at the zombie and putting it back at rest before he collected the remains of the sacrificed chicken and his tools. He’d drop the chicken off at a funeral home with a crematorium that worked with animators, destroying animals used in sacrifice. Candice had texted him a list of local businesses earlier where he could procure the chickens needed for sacrifice, as well as a business that would safely and ritualistically dispose of them. 

Winona was hanging around his trunk when he packed up. 

“You have plans tonight?”

He watched her, gauging her question. “These were my plans. I have to drop off the chicken, then I’m heading back to my motel.”

“I could pick up a bottle of bourbon,” she said.

He nodded. “All right.” He gave her the name of the motel, some loose directions, and his room number.

By the time he finished his drop-off at the funeral home, she was already there, sitting on the little front porch taking delicate swigs straight from the bottle.

“Nice place Raylan,” she said.

“Marshals don’t bring home the kind of money, say, realtors do,” he said.

She didn’t answer at first. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

He hung his head. “No, don’t go. I’ll try not to be a dick.”

“It’s a shame you don’t have some other way, say maybe raising the dead, that could bring in enough to pay for a room that doesn’t have a highway running through the middle of it.”

Raylan laughed. “But this place has such character. Besides, I am paying for a place like that in Miami and not currently sleeping in it.”

“So this isn’t a permanent move?”

“Hell no. I never meant to step foot back in Kentucky.”

They migrated into the room, and eventually to the bed. Both had known where this was going the moment she’d invited herself to back to his room.

A couple hours later, Raylan pulled out, rolled off his ex-wife, and cursed when he saw the tear in the condom.

“What?”

“Rubber broke.”

“Shit.”

Raylan took a moment to gather himself, sitting on the side of the bed. 

“Are you clean?” she asked.

“What?” He turned and gave her an appalled look.

“Are you clean? Have you been sleeping with men lately?”

“Jesus Christ Winona.”

“I’ll take that as a yes then,” she said. 

Raylan headed to the bathroom to dispose of the failed prophylactic. When he got back, Winona already had half her clothes back on.

“This was a bad idea,” he said. The night had not been something he saw coming. But when they’d been in bed, panting out the stress of the day, another blond’s face rolled through his mind. He was just thankful he had enough control not to call out Tim’s name when he came. Raylan didn’t dwell on the torch he was carrying for the other marshal, aside from a few minutes every night or two, when Tim’s face would flash through Raylan’s mind as he striped his stomach with cum. Raylan realized he’d conditioned himself to associate Tim’s face with orgasm. Great. That wouldn’t make the next Monster SOG they got called in together on at all awkward. He’d have to start switching up his mental spank bank.  

She nodded. “I just… it’s been a long time. After Gary died… and turned, everything was different. I just couldn’t stand sleeping with… a dead man. When he goes to sleep, he dies, Raylan.”

Raylan nodded his head. He knew the dead well; he always had. He’d never seen the appeal in sleeping with them. He knew some fell for their glamour, the power they had over their victims minds.

“So, it’s okay for you to sleep with a dead man, but not for me to sleep with a living one?” Raylan said.

“That’s just it Raylan. I haven’t been sleeping with him at all.”

“Doesn’t account for the double standard,” he said.

Her hand on the doorknob, she didn’t answer him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** technical edits 1/15/17 (no content changes)

Raylan ran late the next day reporting in to the marshal’s office.

He wasn’t surprised to find that Rachel wasn’t even back on desk duty yet. Nelson gave him the short heads-up nod as he strolled out of the elevator.

“Art’s been looking for you,” Nelson said, as they exchanged places between the elevator and the hallway. “And there’s a special ops guy he brought in to back you on monster details.”

Raylan took a beeline to Art’s doorway to stick his head in.

“You looking for me?”

“I am. Come in and have a seat. How’d your zombie go last night?” Art waved at a chair, giving him the clearance to come in.

Raylan sat down and rested his hat on his knee. “I raised the zombie, the lawyers and family got their will signed, I put him back,” Raylan shrugged. “Saw Winona though. You sure there’s nothing sketchy about the local vamp scene in Lexington?”

“How did you run into Winona raising a zombie? I thought she… disapproved,” Art said.

“That among other things, apparently,” Raylan answered, shifting in his seat.

“Ahh. Well, maybe the divorce wasn’t the worst idea then?”

Raylan didn’t answer.  He looked off to the side out the window and sucked on the side of his cheek.

“Alrighty. And nothing with the local vamps that I’ve heard. Had some turnover with the head vamp a while back, but they’ve been quiet, running their tourist traps, no trouble. But if you’re asking, now I’m not so sure. What did you hear?”

“Winona was the court reporter last night. She said Gary’s having some problems with the vamp who turned him. Who’s the master of the city here?”

“They don’t have one, last I heard.” Raylan heard someone comment from behind him. He knew the voice well—must be the backup Nelson mentioned.

“Gutterson, you asshole. What you are doing here?”

Raylan turned to find Tim Gutterson leaning against glass wall that served as the doorjamb of Art’s office.

“How am I the asshole?” Tim said, and laughed. “You’re the one who didn’t call me when you found Bucks.”

“I took care of it, didn’t I?” Raylan said.

“You boys already know each other then?” Art said.

Tim shrugged. “There aren’t that many of specialized licensed vampire executioners in the country. Raylan’s got that whole—” he waved his hand “—hinky animator thing going on. And I’m former preternatural special forces. We’d cross paths eventually.”

“Should I be worried you both had an interest in Bucks?” Art said.

Raylan started, “I told you that was justi—”

Tim’s even flat voice interrupted. “If he’d called me like I told him to, we’d have taken Bucks down together. With at least a little finesse. And Raylan wouldn’t even be here.”

Raylan had never considered that.

“Looks like I called in the right PSOG marshal for backup since Rachel’s down, then,” Art said. 

Raylan perked up and stood. “Tim’s is my backup then?”

Tim stepped into the room, even with Raylan. Raylan shoulder-bumped him, “You wanna go raise a potentially insane zombie with me tonight?”

Tim gave him a small close-mouthed smile. “What kinds of toys do I get to bring?”

“You’re entirely too pleased with this Raylan. You two aren’t going to blow Harlan to kingdom come, are you?”

“Naw, that’s Boyd Crowder’s job,” Raylan said.

“Who?” Tim asked.

“Local boy. Old friend of Raylan’s here. The guy’s running a vampire-hate group and killing vampire miners.”

Tim nodded. “That’s right. You’re from here, aren’t you?”

“Hmm-mmm. So, how can Lexington have no city master, and why do you know this and I don’t?” Raylan said.

“I’m a better marshal than you.”

Art laughed, holding up his hands. “Tim said it. I didn’t.”

“More like a better gossip. You Super-SOG guys gossip as much as the vamps,” Raylan said.

Tim ignored him. “It’s actually kind of a mystery—your city master and a few others around the country. The official line is your guy—um—merged with another master in Louisville.”

“Merged?”

“I don’t know. It’s vampire for marry but it seems like how European royalty used to marry to consolidate power, I think.”

“You’re kidding. Who’d want to spend eternity in a marriage of convenience?”

“Vampire masters, I guess. But your guy—Savine… no Sabine, wasn’t it, Art? She went to shack up with Louisville’s master, Tarron, then he turned around and took a blood oath to the Detroit contingent instead of taking the challenge and dying in a wide path of blood, violence, and horror.”

“A peaceful transition of vamp power? That’s kind of unheard of,” Raylan said.

“Therein lies the mystery.”

“Then who do all the baby vamps around here swear a blood oath to?” Raylan asked.

“Sabine, in Louisville. Or her master. It’s a pyramid scheme of power, I think.”

“All the local vamps go to Louisville to blood oath? Winona said Gary’s master was into something sketchy. But he sure sounded local.”

At the same time, Tim asked who Winona was and Art interjected, “Oh, no, no, no, Raylan.”

Raylan stepped back and sat down at one end of the couch along the glass wall in Art’s office. His left boot rested on his right knee, and he stretched his arm along the back of the couch.

“Comfortable Raylan?” Art asked.   

“Thanks, I am. I told her to come to you Art. I swear.”

“Have a seat, Tim.”

Tim looked at the seat next to Raylan at the other end of the couch and then pulled a chair over and sat in it so he was facing them both at an angle.

“There’s an intermediary vamp in charge in Lexington—like Detroit outsourced the running of smaller areas to the masters it controls. The question that everyone keeps coming back to is, why are some vamps consolidating power around the country?” Tim said.

“Why?” Art asked.

“Don’t know. But it makes a lot of executioners and the Super-SOG guys nervous,” Tim said. “I expect we’ll see a Preternatural Task Force formed before too long to think on the question.”

“I thought vamps had a council to deal with shit like this. Why does living longer than 300 years turn vamps into megalomaniacal assholes?” Raylan asked no one in particular.

“That’s a different mystery,” Tim mumbled. “Who’s Winona?”

“Raylan’s ex-wife whose new husband is a vampire. She showed up at his zombie party last night.”

Tim’s face actually showed surprise. “ _You_ have an ex-wife?”

“I know it’s shocking someone would marry him,” Art said, and laughed.

Tim nodded like that was what he meant.

Raylan shook his head and gestured to Tim. “She’s a court reporter. She was assigned to last night’s zombie ritual. I raise zombies for court work.”

“And marshal business,” Art added.

“Exactly,” Raylan said and nodded. “So you want to go raise a witness from the dead with me tonight? Good chance he’ll be insane and seeking vengeance.”

“Best offer I’ve had all day.”

“What other offers—”

Art interrupted. “All right. I got the paperwork for you to take to Ava Crowder. The ADA agreed to lesser charges if she agrees to allow you to raise her dead husband and allow a representative from the marshal’s office to interview him on the cases involving her brother-in-law and the zombie deaths.”

“A good chance Bowman won’t be able to give us anything,” Raylan said. “Murder victims can get fixated trying to get to their killers.”

“Now you tell me,” Art said.

“I did mention it.”

“ADA wanted to deal her down anyway,” Art said. “I think this just gave him to a good reason to do it.”

“But I think we have a better chance of getting info out of Bowman dead than we do any of the living Crowders. Ava didn’t know anything about Boyd’s vampire group killing the local vamps?”

“Gee Raylan, we never thought to just ask her.” Art gave Raylan an eat-shit look. “She told Rachel she stayed out of Bowman’s family business, that he was tight-lipped about it. I want you two to head down to Harlan this afternoon. When can you raise Bowman, Raylan?”

“Has to be after dark,” Raylan said.

“That gives you a few hours to get caught up on Crowder file, Tim. Raylan, you can log into GSA and get you and Tim a room somewhere in or around Harlan. No point in you two driving down and then back to Lexington tonight to turn around and go back down to Harlan tomorrow. Fedrooms has to have something down that way under the contract rate,” Art said, dismissing them.

“One night?” Raylan asked.

“Only one room?” Tim said over him.

Art looked back and forth between them. Raylan propped his hat on and looked down to mask the way his brow was bearing down at the thought that Tim didn’t want to share a room with him. He peeked out at Tim from under the brim of his hat.

“What, you snore Gutterson?” Art said.

“Little bit,” Tim said, his face was a mask, but not the dead emptiness that fell over him when he talked about killing monsters.

Art laughed. “Raylan can handle it. One night for now Raylan. We’ll see what you turn up tonight and tomorrow and go from there.”

***

Raylan handed over the paperwork they’d need for the trip to Tim, then left after noon to pack a bag and go collect some items he’d need for animating Bowman. He pulled up to pick up Tim at two, not seeing him at first, then amazed that he seemed to appear out of nowhere, leaning against one of the walls near the back entrance of the Federal Courthouse like he’d always been there. Tim had an uncanny ability to blend in places. Raylan attributed to his Ranger training.

“Where’s your bag?” Raylan asked. He’d lowered the passenger side window to lean across the seat half-yelling out to Tim.  

“Oh, I’m driving,” Tim said, and headed for the strip of government permit parking on Pleasant Street behind the courthouse.

Raylan followed along behind him. “I’ve got a marshal-issued vehicle.”

“I’ve got an SUV under a government rental contract with unlimited mileage. Costs less to drive the rental than that boat.”

“No LEO lights on it though,” Raylan said.

Tim stopped at the corner and bent down to peer up at the grill of Raylan’s town car. “Don’t see any on yours either,” Tim said.

“I know the way,” Raylan countered.

“I’ve got GPS.” Tim stalked off toward an SUV taking up one of the permit spots.

Raylan tried not to enjoy watching him walk away for a good forty-five seconds, at least, then turned the corner after him. Tim stopped at a black SUV, waking it up with a fob click.

“Lots of hollers down there. Unmapped areas,” Raylan said.

“So, if I get us lost, you’ll get us found. Won’t you?” Tim folded his arms and waited. “Besides, you have a permanent pass for this parking nightmare; mine’s a temp. I don’t even have a hotel yet. No place to leave the rental.”

Raylan sighed, and hit his hazard lights, double parking in middle of the street next to Tim’s SUV. “Fine. I need to transfer my bags, my executioner and animation kits over. And my chicken.”

“Your chicken?” Tim actually sounded surprised.

“Can’t raise a zombie without a blood sacrifice.”

“I suppose there’s a run on live chickens in Harlan?” Tim said.

“Sure. Maybe? Probably not, but didn’t want to chance it,” Raylan said. “Safer bet to bring one with me.”

Tim shrugged. “You think a little chicken shit is going to change my mind, don’t you.” The way Tim said it, it wasn’t a question as much as a dry observation.

Raylan got out and gave Tim what he hoped was his most disarming smile. “A man can hope,” Raylan said.

“Good at that, aren’t you?” Tim said.

Raylan raised one shoulder in a shrug that might have agreed with him, or might not have.

“I’m not fucking you tonight,” Tim said.

Raylan’s stomach tightened in disappointment and a bit of shame he pretended he didn’t feel. He wasn’t used to reading potential sex partners as badly as he’d been reading Tim. All day, he’d felt buzzed by a current of anticipation running under his skin over what could happen that night. He had to admit, if only to himself, that he felt even more hyperaware of Tim than he normally did.

“Huh. Don’t recall asking. But, noted,” Raylan said. He opened the back door of his town car and grabbed the portable wire crate from the backseat containing a clucking, unhappy hen. She’d be more than unhappy before the night was over. Raylan forced the thought out of his mind. If he could put down a vampire with few qualms over an order of execution he didn’t even agree with—and not all the orders that came his way he agreed with 100 percent, then he couldn’t afford to get lost in sympathy over a chicken.

“Unlocked?” Raylan asked.

Tim answered with a double-click on the fob, accompanied by the sound of the locks in the back clicking open. He climbed into the driver’s seat and adjusted the AC.

Raylan opened the driver-side backseat door and shoved his caged chicken across the seat, then loaded his weapons, kits, and luggage into the backseat of SUV. He could see Tim’s executioner kit, his luggage and a couple other large bags in the back. Tim had a lot of shit with him. Raylan half-hoped there were some fun toys Tim would share with him; the man had the best weapons.

“Street parking is near full-up. I’m going to turn around and just take your spot when you pull out. That work for you?”

“Sure.”

***

Raylan was impressed that Tim found I75 south without asking for directions. He wasn’t sure what crawled up his butt, but normally Tim was more fun to work with than this. The ex-Ranger had been quiet since he’d made the disappointing comment about not fucking him that night. Raylan noticed he didn’t say he _never_ planned to fuck Raylan, just didn’t plan to that night. Raylan was tempted to probe Tim a bit on the matter, but as long as never wasn’t on the table, Raylan counted himself still in the running.

“Art said this guy, Boyd Crowder, was an old friend of yours,” Tim said. He’d turned down a classic rock station to conversation-level volume.

“Yeah, a long time ago. I grew up around him… same schools, some of the same teams. Then, before I got out of Harlan, we dug coal together. He used to be… all right. Not the bigot he is now,” Raylan said.

“How so?” Tim asked.

“You know much about animators? About the… ability, I guess, to raise the dead?” Raylan was hesitant to call it a power and didn’t ever call it necromancy. With vampires, power was their chosen currency. Necromancers didn’t have the best reputations.

“Not really. I know there’s a ritual. And now I know it involves a chicken,” Tim said and darted a look back at the chicken behind Raylan. He did a double-take. “Raylan, your chicken is staring at me.”

Raylan unbuckled his belt and looked around the seat behind him. He laughed.

“Maybe she likes you. You’re a fine cut of a man, you know.”

Tim rolled his eyes, but his lips pulled at a smile—and that fair, fair skin of his looked just a bit pink creeping up his neck to his face. “I’m still not fucking you tonight.”

Raylan took the hit, letting his head fall back a bit from the blow. “That’s twice in the last hour you’ve told me that. You trying to convince you or me?”

Tim looked over at him briefly, then shot a look back at the chicken.

“Your chicken is creeping me out Raylan,” Tim said.

“Let me get this right… you’ve been killing preternatural creatures since you went into the military… when you were how old?”

“Seventeen.”

“And that little chicken scares you?” Raylan smirked as he asked the question.

“Didn’t say I was scared. The point is your chicken is rude.”

“So, between legal executions stateside, your time as a Ranger on the Preternatural Specialist Unit—

“And sniper. I started out as a sniper. Then I shifted to monster school. More challenging than killing humans,” Tim said.

Raylan watched Tim’s face fall blank. No smile. No lip twitching. His voice was flat. The vertical crease between his eyebrows even disappeared. Tim was wearing the mask of his sociopathic façade.

“Didn’t know that. You did some bounty hunting out West... and other contract work... before you joining Marshal Service, right?” Raylan asked. 

“Mmm-hmm. While I finished by BS. Before I met you in Nicaragua. Got my AA in the military," Tim said.

“You have a degree?”

“Why do you sound surprised? I’m a marshal, you know. A college degree is required.”

“You’re kinda young. I figured your special forces experience comped for the degree,” Raylan said. "I thought you'd applied after the Bucks mission in Nicaragua."

“Nope,” Tim said, popping the “p” on the word.

"What'd you major in?" Raylan asked.

"Criminal law with a minor in Preternatural Studies." 

Raylan nodded. “So, sniper, Preternatural Ranger specialist, bounty hunter, legal vampire executioner and Super-SOG Marshal. How many kills do you figure you have?”

“Jesus Christ Raylan, you got a ruler handy? We could compare dick sizes too.”

Raylan grinned. “Actually that’d be f—”

“Forget I mentioned it. It’s classified,” Tim said. His lip twitching was back. “If I told you, I’d have to…”

“Yeah, yeah. Kill me.”

“It _is_ actually classified, Raylan.”

“But the count is high enough that a rude chicken shouldn’t hit your radar.”

Tim was quiet while he passed a semi. “What changed with this Crowder character? You said he wasn’t a bigot when you were kids,” Tim said.

Raylan looked out the window watching the Kentucky River move into their rear window, then letting his eyes trail over the deep cuts into the hills where they’d carved the Interstate into the land to smooth out sharp grades. They were covered in what look liked chicken wire or mesh to avoid rocks falling onto the highway. He wondered what the mesh was made from.

“I don’t know what happened. When we were kids, he was one of the few people who’d been decent to me. The ability to raise the dead wasn’t looked on like a career option back then, but more like a family curse. When I presented, I was… ten maybe. If you think a live chicken staring you down is creepy, imagine a parade of roadkill come to life.”

“That happened to you?”

“I don’t hunt. Not animals. Not for sport. Went on my first hunting trip with friends… we bagged a deer one afternoon. They strung her up overnight to bleed out, and to keep her away from bears. In middle of the night, she came to—still dead mind you—trying to get to me. Shrieking and thrashing something awful.” Raylan didn’t explain they’d had to fetch his mama up the mountain to put the deer back to rights. He was too young to know how put back what he’d accidently risen.

“Why was the deer trying to get to you?”

“To commune, I guess. That’s part of…” Raylan wanted to say necromancy, but there was a chance Tim knew enough to know that being a necromancer came with a whole other package of problems. “…of being an animator. I have a natural affinity with the dead.”

“That’s how you can tell when there’s a vampire in the room, and where they’re hiding in the dark?  Why you wouldn’t bail out of that warehouse in Miami?”

“I sensed Bucks, or something, still there.”

“Could he have been throwing his power… like people throw their voices?”

“Could be. There’s no end to the little tricky power nuances master vamps acquire.”

Tim’s lips broke into a smile. “And therein lies the challenge of hunting monsters over taking out bad guys through a sniper scope.”

“And you like to come see me because you get to kill things.” Raylan stated as if Tim had never said it before. Maybe what he’d taken for flirting had always been a bit of sociopathic anticipation.

Tim’s closed mouth, smile was back. He was twitching and pursing his lips to fight it.

“Suppose you meant that then… we’re not going to fuck tonight.”

Tim shot Raylan a confused look, but didn’t contradict him.


	5. Chapter 5

Tim followed Raylan’s directions to Ava Crowder’s house.

Raylan remembered Ava as being beautiful, interested, and way too young to acknowledge before he left Harlan. If Harlan had a great beauty, she was probably still it.

Ava showed both of them into her living room to go over the paperwork. Raylan sat close with her on her living room couch while Tim stood looking around the room with his arms either crossed stubbornly across his chest or tight behind his back with his fingers gripped on the back of his belt.

“Now Ava, we need you to sign here agreeing to let us raise Bowman from the dead,” Raylan said.

“I don’t have to be there, do I?” Ava asked.

“Prefer you weren’t actually. Sometimes murder victims don’t respond to reanimation all that well,” Raylan said.

“Jesus Raylan,” she breathed his name. “You’re not going to let him come after me. Maybe I shouldn’t….” Ava said.

“No, Ava. Deputy Gutterson and I both are good at our jobs,” Raylan said.

She looked up at Tim as if she was just noticing him. She smiled weakly in his direction. He nodded and responded with a short, “Ma’am.”

Ava seemed to come to her senses. “Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink?” Before Raylan knew it, she was on her feet heading for the kitchen, the reanimation order sitting unsigned on her coffee table. He sighed.

She called out to them, offering them a selection of pop, coffee or water. Tim gave Raylan a look that said, now what? Raylan shrugged and headed into the kitchen, with the papers in hand.

In the kitchen, Ava went on about how her marriage to Bowman had been a farce, how he’d been beating her, controlling her. She finally wound her way around to telling Raylan about her teenage crush on him. 

“Here Ava, let me help you with that,” Raylan said. Shoving the legal papers under his arm, he took two glasses filled to the top—one with Tim’s ice water and other with his RC Cola when Ava moved in on him, kissing him on the mouth, her hands holding tight to either side of his head, effectively stunning him. 

As kisses went, it wasn’t at all bad. She was soft, easy on the eye, and smelled good. He engaged for maybe a good five seconds out of sheer habit.

The problem was there might have been a more ill-timed kiss in Raylan’s life up to that point, but he couldn’t think of it. Especially when he heard a throat clear.

He took one step back out of her proximity to find Tim leaning in the doorway leading off to the hall. “As much as I hate to interrupt, we need to get our paperwork signed, Ms. Crowder. Raylan’s got a chicken wasting away in my backseat.”

“You left the windows open, didn’t you?” Raylan said, handing him his water.

“I’m not a sadistic asshole. Besides, I don’t want to spend all night looking for another sacrifice.”

Raylan raised his eyebrows at Tim’s language in front of a witness and civilian.

“Sorry Ava. He’s right,” Raylan said. “We’re here on marshal business, and we really do need to get your signature. It’ll be dark soon.”

Ava looked scared for a moment.

Raylan misread it. “Bowman won’t be able to leave the cemetery. If he reacts badly, both Deputy Gutterson and I can contain him. Just stay home with your door locked and you’ll be fine.”

“I was planning on that, actually,” she said. “Is there anything that Boyd or Bowman’s daddy can do about you raising Bowman?”

“Well, no. We were looking into Boyd, as you know, so we approached you, as his brother’s spouse and next of kin of the deceased.”

“That’s good,” she said. And signed the paperwork.

***

“Pretty girl,” Tim said, as he pulled down the drive back out to an old country road.

“Not so much a girl anymore. But yes. She was always considered one of the great beauties around Harlan,” Raylan said. He wasn’t going to bring up the kiss if Tim didn’t.

“Were you and she friends, too?” Tim took both hands off the wheel long enough to make air quotes around the word “friends.”

“Not back then, no. She’s a good four or five years younger than me. Too young for me back in the day,” Raylan said.

“And is she too young for you now?” Tim asked.

Well, apparently Tim wasn’t going to bring it up directly, so Raylan was going to have to dive in. “First time I’ve seen her in over twenty years…. You should know I didn’t invite that.”

“No?”

“’Course not. You should know that,” Raylan insisted.

Tim’s eyebrow crease was back. “Don’t know about that. From my perspective, I see you doing a lot of inviting that kind of thing.”

“Why, Tim, are you jealous?” Raylan asked.

Tim looked nonplussed at the least. “Don’t know that I’d would go far enough to call it jealous.”

“But something close to it then,” Raylan said. It wasn’t a question.

“Apparently.”

Raylan smiled. “Good to know.”

“Are you interested in her?” Tim said. His voice was a bit bare and rough with honesty.

“Tim, you really think that?” Raylan said.

“I don’t know Raylan. That’s why I asked. Is the turn coming up for the cemetery soon?”

Raylan pointed Tim in the direction of the cemetery, turning to business.

“You ever been to an animation?” Raylan said.

“No.”  

“Okay. I’m going to sacrifice the chicken, collect its blood to draw a circle of power around myself and Bowman. I’ll raise him, then feed him some of my blood. When he’s coherent, then I’m going to order him to answer your questions truthfully. I need you to stand outside the circle for legal reasons. If you’re inside the circle when I raise him, you can control him—and thereby control his answers. Since I will have the power to command him, I can’t legally ask him questions in an active investigation. It’d be seen as biased.”

“And if he’s insane with revenge against Ava?” Tim said.

“I’ll tell him she’s dead.” 

“You’re going to lie to a zombie?” Tim said in a disapproving tone.

“Yep.” 

“Isn’t that… unethical… or something?”

“LEOs lie and stretch the truth during interrogations all the time,” Raylan countered.

“True,” Tim said, but his tone didn’t seem to indicate he approved.

“You got anything that throws flames or explodes in the trunk, by chance?”

“Might have,” Tim said.

“Wouldn’t hurt to have a fire source on hand. I don’t think I’ll have a problem controlling him but you never know what could happen. Further, I’ve got a theory about ghouls and all these old family cemeteries tucked into fields and behind houses all over Kentucky.”

“Kentucky is different from other states?” Tim said.

“Maybe. I’ve been raising the dead in larger cities since I left home. Didn’t occur to me until I pulled the county maps for cemeteries. Lots of old, abandoned dead in the ground in these hills.”

“I’ve heard of some ghoul attacks with hikers,” Tim said.

“Exactly, with so many spread out all over the rural parts of the state… when the ground grows old and the sanctification of the burial ground wears thin or dark for whatever reason, what’s to stop Great-Great-Great Grandma Ghoul from roaming the hollers for fresh meat.”

“You’re serious,” Tim said.

“’Fraid so.”

Tim smiled his honest, sociopathic smile—toothy with dead blue eyes. “I always have the best fun when I’m around you. You’re my favorite marshal, Raylan.”

Raylan gave Tim an odd look, then pointed to the turn off for the cemetery Bowman was buried in.

***

Raylan remembered Bowman Crowder being better looking than his older brother. Bowman got the looks; Boyd got the charisma.

But the years had not been as kind to Bowman as they had Boyd. When Bowman broke through the ground, he wasn’t in bad shape for a dead man, but he had a bit of a belly on him. What had once been a lot of muscle had probably turned to fat as he hit his mid-to-late thirties. He’d been a big man to begin with, up to his death. Either Ava was as good a cook as she boasted or he’d enjoyed his beer and whiskey a little too well. His hairline seemed to have fared better than Boyd’s had, though.

As Bowman climbed onto solid ground, Raylan heard Tim utter a “holy shit” off to his right. Bowman cocked his head in Tim’s direction—Bowman wasn’t home yet and wouldn’t be until Raylan fed him blood. Then, his “consciousness” would return. But in the meantime, Raylan didn’t want Tim drawing his attention and the zombie trying to go after the other marshal to feed. He wasn’t worried about Tim’s safety as much as Bowman’s. Tim could and would hold his own if Bowman attacked. However, they wouldn’t be able to question Bowman once Tim finished with him. So Raylan pulled the sharp blade of his machete lightly across the top of his forearm, drawing blood.

“Bowman Crowder,” Raylan called the zombie to him, waving his bloodied arm. Bowman made a beeline for Raylan’s arm, pressing his lips against the wound and sucking. Antibacterial cream was a must-carry in Raylan’s zombie kit. He figured one of these days he’d develop a resistance or allergy to Neosporin and have to move on something else. It was one of those little reasons he was glad he didn’t work as a full-time animator. Some of them across the country raised three or more zombies a night, if they had the power. Raylan could have raised more than that a night and live as a wealthy man… but it wasn’t his calling.

He pulled his arm away from Bowman, watching him carefully for signs of vengeance.

“Bowman Crowder?”

“Where am I? Where’s Ava?” Bowman said. His voice was clear. Raylan was strong enough that his zombies were lifelike.

“She’s gone Bowman. Dead. You don’t need to worry about her anymore.”

Raylan’s eyes darted over to Tim, who shook his head in disapproval. Funny, Tim was bothered that Raylan would lie to the zombie, but wholly unbothered about the potential scenario of lighting Bowman on fire.

“Bowman, I am commanding you to answer this man,” Raylan paused and pointed to Tim. Clarity was always best with zombies. Bowman looked who Raylan pointed to. “This is Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson, when he asks you questions, answer with honesty to the very best of your knowledge. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Bowman answered.

Raylan nodded at Tim to begin.

“Are you Bowman Crowder, brother of Boyd Crowder?”

“I am.” 

Raylan shook his head. He wondered if Bowman realized he was dead. He’d either accepted the lie or his ignorance of his situation might be why he didn’t act out in vengeance. He motioned Tim over to edge of the circle, and whispered in his ear, “I don’t think he knows he’s dead and that’s why we didn’t have any real issue with him, so play along.” Tim gave Raylan another disappointed look. “Either that or we have to contain him while he goes apeshit.”

“Okay, you’re right,” Tim said. “Bowman, what do you know of your brother’s involvement with a group called Humans First?” Tim might beat around the bush with Raylan, but not with suspects.

“That was just Boyd’s acting out against Daddy.”

Raylan felt a trickle of power, his hand fell to his sidearm. “Tim. Hold up. I feel a vampire out there.”

Tim’s stance mimicked Raylan’s, going on alert. “Which direction?”

“Sec…” Raylan said, sending his power out to get a better sense of what he’d picked up. “Coming from those woods over there.” Raylan pointed to trees running the south line of the graveyard.

A few minutes later, a large figure glided toward them out of the woods. He was moving fast but not eye-blur fast like some vampires could. Raylan took that to mean, whoever it was, he wasn’t necessarily trying to threaten them.

“You recognize him?” Tim said. “Big guy for a vamp.”

“Not yet. He feels… old but not old.” Raylan sensed the vamp had more power than his years could account for… he wasn’t more than ten years old on the up side, maybe even younger. It was hard to tell with the mismatch between age and power.

“Can you explain that?” Tim said.

“Nope. He’s young, but he feels powerful—master level, but not a powerful master,” Raylan said.

When the vampire got within about twenty feet of the grave, Tim called out for him to stop.

He held up his badge. “Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to stop right there. I’m U.S. Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson, here with another marshal from the Preternatural Division of the Marshal Service. We are questioning a witness in an on-going investigation.”

Tim whispered out the side of his mouth in Raylan’s direction. “Next time I hand you a Marshal breaker, you need to put it on.”

“He’ll be able to tell from your heartbeat and smell if you’re lying. He knows we’re marshals.”

“Still,” Tim said.

Raylan shrugged. He wasn’t a fan of the navy slicker with bright yellow letters. Tim was a fan of all regulation apparel and seemed to enjoy forcing it on Raylan.

The vampire stopped. “That’s precisely what I’m here for—you’re raising my flesh and blood from the dead without even the courtesy of asking my say in the matter.”

About that time, Bowden looked out at the vampire. “Daddy, is that you?”

“Shit,” Raylan whispered. “It’s Bo Crowder.”

“Who?” Tim asked.

“Daddy, are you here to turn me? I think Ava hurt me… if you turn me now, I won’t die,” Bowman said.

“Ohhh shit,” Tim said.

“Mr. Crowder, I’m going to need you to stay back and let us finish our business. In fact, I think it’d be best for you to go,” Raylan said. “Your son isn’t fully aware of his situation and anything you say might upset him. If Deputy Gutterson or I have to take extreme action, I wouldn’t want that to be the last image in your mind of Bowman here.”

“You’re Arlo’s boy, aren’t you?” Bo asked.

“That’s one way to put it,” Raylan said, then pressed his lips together. “I’m Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens.”

“I remember you. Weird kid. Lots of dead animals followed you around,” Bo said.

Tim’s eyes tracked the conversation between Bo and Raylan—unable not to peek at Raylan’s closed-off features at that bit of information.

“But you made good for yourself, though, didn’t you? Heard they call you ‘The Executioner’ these days,” Bo said.

Raylan nodded. “The vampires do.”

Bo nodded. “Heard you were in town—took down some of my miners.”

“I’m sorry about that Mr. Crowder,” Raylan said. “They were suffering from silver nitrate madness.”

“I know, and that’s the only reason we’re having such a civilized conversation tonight,” Bo said.

“Raylan?” Tim asked the silent question in that one word—how much of a threat was that just now.

“There are two younger vamps who stayed back in the woods. I think Mr. Crowder is just here to mourn his son,” Raylan said. “Isn’t that right, Bo?”

“Yeah, that. I heard the Executioner had been to Harlan. But I didn’t hear that Death had come to join him,” Bo said turning to Tim.

Tim shrugged and smiled, spreading his hands in a gesture of either gratitude or false openness. “Touched you recognize me all the way out here in the country.”

Raylan refrained from rolling his eyes.

“We’re more connected than you realize, deputies,” Bo said.

Raylan watched Tim’s face grow serious and their eyes met—Raylan knew Tim was thinking about his concerns about shifting powers in the city masters. 

“Raylan, I even have a colleague who was heartbroken by your recent execution of a friend of his in Miami.”

“Sorry to hear that. But Tommy Bucks was a bad man,” Raylan said.

“He was a master vampire,” Bo said.

“I stand corrected. He was a bad vampire,” Raylan said. “What kind of vampire are you, Bo Crowder?”

Bo laughed. “I’m the best kind. I’m the master of the city in these parts.”

“Of Harlan? Wow, Harlan’s come up in the world since I left. Got a Wal-Mart right down the road and its own city master.”

“More like county, but no one ever calls it that, do they deputies?”

Raylan shrugged. “Never heard of a county master. You Tim?”

Tim shook his head and was getting ready to say something when his attention was drawn to the road. “A truck’s coming,” Tim said. He tilted his head. “Probably old. Sounds like a worn clutch and bad suspension.”

Raylan nodded, impressed.

Bo Crowder sighed. “My other son. Boyd.”

“How’d you both know we’d be out here tonight?” Tim said.

“My lovely daughter-in-law called me,” Bo said.

“And Boyd?” Raylan said. “Bowman here said you and Boyd weren’t gettin’ along.”

“She’s gets along with Boyd better than well enough,” Bo said.

“Daddy? Ava? Where is she?” Bowman said.

Raylan turned his attention back to the zombie, who’d been following the conversation like a child, his attention piqued by the mention of his name followed by Ava’s. Raylan watched as a madness filled Bowman’s eyes.

“Shit. It’s going south, Tim,” Raylan said. “I’ve got to inter Bowman now.” 

Raylan kept an eye on the dead man while he dug around in his zombie kit bag. Bowman was pressing his palms to his chest… yanking open the buttoned-up Sunday-best shirt a funeral director had dressed him in. His fingers found the hole in his chest and ran along the baseball stitching from the autopsy.

“That bitch,” Bowman bellowed. “If I have to be in the ground, I’ll put her down right beside me.”

Raylan popped the Ziploc lid from his container of salt from his zombie kit and grabbed his machete.

“Tim, I need you here now,” Raylan said. “Cross the circle if you can.”

Tim kept his eye on Bo Crowder but closed the distance between him and Raylan.

“I thought you said being inside the circle was bad,” Tim said.

“Bad for interrogation, good for helping me get Bowman back in the ground. You’re mundane enough to able to cross.”

“Uh, thanks. I think.”

“I meant magically.”

A truck crested the hill and a flash of lights panned across them.

“That figures,” Tim said. “I guess that owl from Hogwarts ain’t coming any time soon.” 

Tim crossed the line. “Ugh,” he said.

“What?” Raylan asked.

“Feels like walking through a spiderweb,” Tim said.

“Hmmm. Not a null then,” Raylan said. “Don’t count that owl out yet Timmy.”

Tim started to ask, but gunfire exploded out of the truck. Tim pulled Raylan down, using the Crowder headstone for cover. Bowman’s attention was caught by a bullet that hit in him the shoulder, then another in the forehead, cutting short his bellowing for Ava momentarily.

 “Are they shooting at us, the zombie, or the vampire?” Raylan said.

“How would I know? Bullets don’t have names on them, Raylan,” Tim said.  

“Huh. Mine do, sometimes,” Raylan murmured. “C’mon. We have to lay Bowman flat on the grave and hold him down. He’s realized he’s dead and is gonna fight us.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“I need him on the ground, near enough the grave itself where he climbed out of the ground,” Raylan said.

Bo Crowder had taken off for the woods. The truck followed giving Tim the chance to tackle Bowman to the ground. Raylan threw salt at the zombie, hitting both men.

“With salt I bind you to your grave,” Raylan said, his voice filled with authority. “Tim… he should stay if you get up.”

“Ava… where are you baby?” Bowman said. “I don’t want to go. I need to get her… need her to lie beside me…”

Raylan shook his head and knelt beside Bowman’s head, smearing his blood from the machete across Bowman’s lips. “With blood and steel I bind you to your grave, Bowman Crowder. Be at peace, and walk no more.”

Raylan stood up and let the ground swallow Bowman once again.

***

Tim had grabbed Raylan’s kit and the empty wire crate and took off for the SUV.

“C’mon. I think we can catch up to them,” Tim said.

Raylan grabbed the dead chicken by the feet and followed him. He felt around the area with his necromancy.

“The vampires are long gone.”

“You don’t want to go after the bigots with the guns and the loud truck?” Tim said, stashing the bag in the backseat after the crate.

“Sure—hand me one of those plastic bags from my zombie kit, will ya?” Raylan held the dead sacrifice away from his body. “You happen to get a plate number on it?”

“Sorry, I was holding down the zombie,” Tim said, passing back the bag behind him. Then, he noticed that Raylan was putting the beheaded chicken in the bag. “You are not putting that in my truck.”

“No worries, it’s not your truck. And I have to ensure the incineration of any animal used in ritual sacrifice so it won’t be used for sinister purposes,” Raylan said. He’d come around to the passenger side and dropped the dead chicken into the floor at his feet.

Tim followed the path the truck had taken but lost the trail in the woods. He turned off the engine, got out, and listened. He couldn’t pick up anything but natural night sounds. Since Raylan said the vampires hadn’t returned, Tim followed Raylan’s directions to a local funeral parlor with a secure sacrificial animal drop-off box.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changing the tag to explicit going forward with this chapter. I'm probably bad at tags. Might have to change my pseud to sucks@tagging.

After they gave up the search for Boyd, Tim drove Raylan to deposit his chicken in the Ritualistic Biological Control drop-off box that looked suspiciously to Tim like a repurposed steel solid-sided milk box with a combination padlock welded to the top. He was pretty sure he could make out the “D” in faded paint that probably had once been part of the word “dairy.”

The night was young, so he followed Raylan’s directions to a restaurant/bar that he said was owned by Boyd’s cousin Johnny Crowder.  

Raylan strolled in through the bar entrance and sidled up to the bar procuring a whiskey for himself and handing off a bottle of Rolling Rock to Tim. The place had a mostly empty restaurant attached. Tim figured it was a little late for dinner.

A dark blond with piercing gray eyes greeted them, but like Ava, seemed focused only on Raylan.  Johnny Crowder actually sounded none too pleased to see Raylan. Tim watched as Raylan worked through the niceties of seeing someone again from high school years later, only to pretend that they didn’t hate each other back in the day, when they clearly had and probably still did. Some of that resentment definitely lingered for Johnny. Tim wondered if it was something as black and white as lawman versus outlaw or if the seeds of animosity were rooted more deeply.

Johnny Crowder’s face still bore the acne scars and pits of what had to have been the foundation of some truly terrible teenage years. As an adult, they made him look rough and unapproachable. Tim tried to imagine having the kind of acne Johnny had to have had in high school with Raylan as a rival. Though Raylan gave away the title of the town’s great beauty to Ava, Raylan himself wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes. 

“We saw your uncle Bo tonight, Johnny,” Raylan said, swallowing a portion of his whiskey. “He couldn’t have been a vampire long. Not more than ten years, I’d say.”

Johnny nodded. “That sounds about right to me.”

Tim noticed the man wasn’t giving anything away.

“There’s a whole lot more vampires around these parts since I left,” Raylan said.

Johnny nodded. Tim had to agree with Raylan that it was odd for there to be so many in a rural area. Vampires tended to flock to the larger cities.

Raylan touched his neck and then pointed Johnny’s neck. “That from your uncle? Playing a good little blood donor or you working up to some kind of life change there?”

Tim put down his beer and leaned in Raylan’s direction, cussing himself because he’d missed the bite on Johnny’s neck. He was either overtired, or half a beer was too much for him. Probably both.

“I don’t know what business it is of yours Raylan. I’m law-abiding. Even if I turned, it shouldn’t matter to the Executioner as long as I’m not committing any Federal capital offenses.”

Raylan nodded and gave Johnny a thin-lipped smile. “State or Federal, your pick,” Raylan said. “So, Johnny, why _are_ there so many vampires in Harlan County?”

“Couldn’t say Raylan. I thought it was like this all over—from what you see in the media. Famous vampires are always in the news and whatnot. People like to be like their role models, don’t they?”

“We’re not getting anywhere. Let’s go and call in to Art,” Tim finally whispered to Raylan. He tossed some money down on the bar to cover their drinks and a tip and nodded toward the door.

“All right. Just a sec,” Raylan said. “Hey Johnny, you know where Boyd’s staying these days?”

“That old church out near Baxter. You know it?” Johnny picked up Tim’s money and nodded to him for the first time that night.

“Think so. He drive a broken down old Ford truck, by chance?” Raylan said.

“No so’s I recall. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.” Raylan smiled as he slipped his hat back on his head and followed Tim out the door.

***

“Harlan has a chain hotel?” Tim pulled through the covered entryway in front of the Comfort Inn off US 421. There weren’t a lot of cars in the lot.

“And a Wal-Mart and a city master, apparently. I’ll go check in—see if we can get on the end. I’ll ask for the second floor if there’s stairs nearby,” Raylan said, opening the door. 

“Why? You expecting someone to mess with us?” Tim asked. “Or for us to need to run in the middle of the night?”

“Hmmm,” Raylan murmured and tipped his head. “Never know.”

Raylan stood in the doorway.

“Something else Raylan?” Tim said.

Uncertainty wasn’t something Tim was used to seeing on Raylan’s face.

“I know Art only approved one double,” Raylan said, then cleared his throat. “If you’d be more comfortable, I can pay for a second room.”

Tim felt torn. Raylan acting like a gentleman made him feel… off-balance, a little squirrelly, and maybe a bit prim. He’d been serious about not fucking that night, but he realized he’d been looking forward to sharing a room with Raylan. Tim’s mind blanked on him, shuffling through his bank of smart-ass replies coming up empty. “I… uh… no. One room is good.”

Raylan half-smiled and nodded. “You’re the boss.” He shut the door.

Tim watched Raylan’s lanky form pass into the hotel and up to the front desk. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said into the empty rental.

***

They ended up in a double room on the second floor on the end.

Raylan pulled a bottle of Jim out of one of his bags, putting it on top of a refrigerator/microwave cabinet.

“You brought your own booze?”

“Harlan County’s a moist county.” Raylan shrugged.

“Moist… sounds worse than dry.” 

“Only town in the county that sells packaged liquor is in Cumberland. Everything else is dry.”

“How’d we drink tonight at Crowder’s place?” Tim asked.

“Restaurant attached,” Raylan said. “You want the first shower?”

Tim pulled out his dopp kit, a T-shirt and a pair of PT shorts. “You know, I do. I think I smell like whatever was oozing out of the dead guy when I tackled him,” Tim said. He headed for the bathroom.

“Yeah? Usually my zombies smell better than that,” Raylan said.

Tim couldn’t help sticking his head back through the bathroom doorway to squint at Raylan. “I can honestly say no one has ever said that to me before,” Tim said.

“Hmm. Understandable. Most of my zombies are lifelike, even the old ones. Now, after I put them to rest… I don’t know how it works, but it’s like pulling the plug on whatever contains the decomp.”

“Ewww. I liked this shirt,” Tim said. He kind of curved forward as if it would get his chest further away from the biohazard that was his black button-down.

“Shoulda buttoned up your slicker then,” Raylan said. “Don’t worry. Zombie juice comes out. Generally. Hand me one of those glasses before you shut the door.”

Tim passed a glass out and took his shower.

***

After his shower, Tim found Raylan was stretched out on the bed closest to the window, leaning against the wall-mounted headboard with his boots off, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was flipping through channels on the TV, not stopping anywhere long enough to settle. His eyes landed on Tim’s shorts as he took a sip of his drink, and he snorted, then started coughing.

“You okay there?” Tim asked. He listened to Raylan cough while he spread his biohazard shirt flat on the bed Raylan hadn’t taken and Ranger-rolled it into a pill-shaped clump of a material he wrapped in the plastic bag from their ice bucket and stowed it in his overnight bag.

“Whiskey up my nose, thank you.” Raylan coughed again and shifted positions on the bed, turning to sit on the side of the bed. “What the hell are you wearing, Gutterson?” Raylan said, his voice gruff.

Tim froze. He wasn’t wearing much. His ran his hands down his gray Beowülf T-shirt with the faded image of the band name, flames, and skull, thin and soft from twenty years of wash cycles, then to his black shorts, his fingers picking at the Ranger patch on the outside corner of the left leg wondering what Raylan was getting at.

“Not the shirt, Tim,” Raylan said.

“Oh. My silkies,” Tim said, matter-of-factly. He ran his hands down the sides of his shorts nervously.

“Your what?” Raylan said.

“Physical training shorts. In the Army, we called ’em silkies,” Tim said. “Some people call them Ranger panties, too.” Tim wagged his eyebrows twice.

Tim watched Raylan lick his lips and swallow. “Shit. You… erm… train in those?”

He shrugged. “Sure. I wear ’em with my boots to mow the lawn. Sleep in them.”

“You have a lawn?” Raylan asked. He looked confused.

Tim nodded, trying not to smile. He and Raylan hadn’t really talked about their homes. They met now and then, generally on neutral ground to kill preternatural creatures who’d broken the law badly enough to be dubbed monsters. 

“Jesus Christ,” Raylan said, then got up giving Tim a wide berth as he made his way to the bathroom.

“What, you don’t like ’em?” Tim said.

Raylan grabbed his dopp kit and stopped at the bathroom. His eyes were like a hangnail snagged on Tim’s shorts. “Now, I didn’t say that at all.”

Tim laughed and baited Raylan a little more because, why not? It felt good to have someone appreciate him so blatantly. “I left you some hot water.”

“Thanks,” Raylan said. “Don’t think I’ll be needing it much though.”

Tim thought he heard him muttering “Shit. Goddamned Ranger panties” before the door shut tight with Raylan on the other side.

***

Art called while Raylan was in the shower. Tim set up a travel door jammer on the hotel door while he gave the chief the rundown on what they’d learned. Art was annoyed that Ava had signed off on the animation, then turned around the sent Bo and Boyd after them. The loose plan for the morning was to track down Boyd, see if there was anything to connect him to the truck and whoever had shot at them.

“So Raylan had no idea that Bo Crowder was a vampire?” Art said.

“Neither of us did. I’ve never heard of little places like Harlan having their own city masters, or whole rural counties having an area master. Raylan said there was something not right about him—he’s got a lot of power for a young vampire,” Tim said.

“What’s your feeling on this?” Art said.

Tim thought about what Raylan had said at the cemetery about how Tim wasn’t a complete psychic null. Raylan was right; Tim had a bad gut feeling about Bo Crowder. “Didn’t see him doing anything illegal.  No mind tricks. Our crosses didn’t flash once. He wasn’t overtly aggressive, but there’s something wrong about the whole thing. He made a point of telling us that vampires were more connected than we assumed,” Tim said.

“All right. See if you two can turn up Boyd tomorrow, and see what the local LEOs have to say about Bo,” Art said.

“You want us back in Lexington tomorrow?” Tim asked.

Art was quiet a moment. “Depends on what tomorrow turns up. Call in after you check out the lead you got on where Boyd’s living.”

Raylan emerged from the bathroom, turning off lights as he spilled into the room, the scent of sandalwood from his shower gel lingered around him.

“You ready to sleep yet?” Raylan said.

“Soon,” Tim said. “I’ve been up a while now.” He’d started the day in New Mexico.

 Raylan poured himself another drink, holding the bottle in Tim’s direction in silent offer.

“Sure.”

Raylan disappeared to grab another glass from the bathroom. When he came back, Tim had settled onto his bed with his gun on the night table and the pillows propped up against his back reading a Kindle.

Raylan handed him his drink. “Thanks. Talked to Art while you were in the shower. Says to go see Boyd tomorrow, then feel out the local LEOs about Bo.”

“Okay. Are we checking out in the morning?” Raylan asked.

“Not sure,” Tim said. “Art wants to see what we come up with tomorrow.”

Tim knocked back his drink, watching Raylan pull back the bedspread and toss the decorative pillow from his bed across to the lounge chair in the corner of the room. He missed. The pillow bounced off, hitting the floor where Raylan left it. Tim tracked with his eyes Raylan as he prowled the room for a moment, then laid his reader aside and stood up to block Raylan when he came back around the bed the second time.

Tim pressed his right palm to Raylan’s over his heart, his forefinger running ridges in the weave of Raylan’s white wife-beater tank.

“Tim?”

Tim stepped up into Raylan’s personal space, his palm measuring the hike in other marshal’s breath and heartbeat. He was pretty sure Raylan wanted this, but years of living under “Don’t ask, don’t tell” in the Army made him cautious when it came to approaching military men and others working law enforcement. Raylan’s features didn’t lean toward fear, and his pupils looked noticeably wider bleeding over the tawny inner circle of his eyes.

Tim thought he was on solid ground. With his left hand, he crooked a finger into one of the belt loops on Raylan’s jeans, tugging him a step closer. “Be more comfortable if you don’t sleep in your jeans,” Tim said.

“Wasn’t sure I’d be able to be out here with you without tenting my boxers,” Raylan said.

“Good,” Tim said. He stretched up and pressed his mouth to Raylan’s.

Raylan kissed him back with one soft, tentative kiss, breaking contact to try to read Tim’s intentions. Tim liked that attention focused on him… the same way he liked that Raylan had offered to get a second room. The warmth spoke a level of respect on Raylan’s part that Tim wanted to reward so he shifted his head for a better angle going in for a deeper kiss. Raylan dug the fingers of his left hand into Tim’s hair and kissed him back in earnest. Tim could taste whiskey and the mint from Raylan’s toothpaste; he wrapped his arms around Raylan’s narrow waist, his hands creeping up to the broader spread of Raylan’s upper back.

Raylan’s other hand slipped down Tim’s back to grab his ass; he groaned.

Tim pulled back. “What?”

“You in those shorts is criminal,” Raylan said.

Tim grinned, giving Raylan a rare toothy smile. Tim was aware he hoarded his smiles on the job. Raylan kissed Tim’s mouth quickly, his hand falling to the side of Tim’s neck.

“This is… great. Amazing. But, I have to ask. Earlier today, you were adamant on how things would go between us tonight.”

“I know. We’re not going to fuck tonight,” Tim said.

Raylan’s brow furrowed, and Tim traced one of his eyebrows with the pad of his forefinger, trying to rub out the confusion.

“Doesn’t mean we can’t fool around,” Tim said.

“Yeah?” Raylan asked.

Tim bodily herded Raylan to his bed and pushed him down onto it. 

Raylan lay before him with his weight on his elbows, his feet still on the floor. Tim followed him down to the bed, straddling his narrow waist. 

“Yeah. I’d kinda like to see where this goes, wouldn’t you?” Tim said. He kissed Raylan once, tentative again.

Raylan swallowed. “You don’t think it’ll get weird—you know, between us?”

Tim’s face must have given some doubt or concern away, because Raylan quickly finished his thought.

“On the job, I mean,” Raylan said. “I like working with you.”

“It’s already weird, Raylan.” Tim sat back on his heels, trying not to crush Raylan’s thighs with his weight.

“True. I just don’t know I’d trust any of the other Super-SOGs at my back like I do you,” Raylan said.

“High praise,” Tim said. His doubt was back. If Raylan was afraid this would alter their working bond, then Tim was concerned, too. Not to mention, it hadn’t been six hours since Ava Crowder had her mouth on Raylan.

“Gotta say, ever since you pulled that caveman bullshit in Miami, I can’t stop thinking about you,” Raylan said.

Tim grinned. “I knew you liked that.”

Raylan snorted, coming as close as he ever did to laughing outright.

“Can’t stop thinking about me, huh?” Tim said. He knew he was fishing, but the image of Ava, now that he’d been thinking of it again, burned.

Raylan grabbed Tim by the shoulders, pulled him down into a kiss and rolled them over. He pressed their bodies together, wedging his leg between Tim’s thighs. He leaned on his elbows over Tim, rubbing his thigh into Tim’s cock.

“Every time I masturbate, you’re on mind whenever I come—even when I don’t mean to think about you,” Raylan said.

Tim sucked in a surprised breath.

Raylan leaned back and pulled his wife-beater over his head.  He stood up off the bed and peeled of his jeans and boxers at the same time. Tim pulled off his T-shirt and, then laid back on the bed, lifting his hips to slide his shorts off when Raylan stopped him.

“Can we keep the shorts?”

“Got a thing for the shorts, do you?”

“Oh yeah,” Raylan said. He crawled up between Tim’s legs, slipping his knees under his thighs, letting them spread out around him.  “I can see how your legs go all the way up to here.” Raylan ran his palms from Tim’s knees and up his thighs, then tracing the skin where the shorts met his legs.

Tim lifted his hips a little in encouragement.

“You wear something under them when you run?”

“A jock,” Tim said.

“But not now,” Raylan said. He flipped the leg of the shorts up, his fingers slipping up under the leg, pulling the short’s brief liner up and aside. “I can see your balls…” Raylan said, grazing his balls with the tip of a finger.  “And your precum is making them stick to your cock.”

“Raylan…” Tim said.

“Hmm?”

“Touch me already.”

“Impatient.”

“These look like they’d feel great against your cock.”

“Touch me and find out,” Tim said.

Raylan leaned down and kissed Tim. “I plan to,” he whispered against his lips.

Sitting back on his knees, Raylan shifted closer to the apex of Tim’s thighs. He slipped his cock under one leg of Tim’s shorts, lining up their cocks together with the liner between them. He wrapped his hand around both their cocks, encasing them together in this hand, with the silky fabric between them.

“Is this gonna stretch your shorts out?”

“I have a bunch of them,” Tim said, lifting his hips to rub against Raylan however he could.

Raylan settled down over Tim, putting his weight on his other elbow. He pumped his hips, rutting against Tim’s cock and the texture of his shorts. He kissed Tim again, leisurely, his tongue sliding into Tim’s mouth in a rhythm that matched his grinding and rutting against Tim.

“Shit. I’m close. How’d I get so close,” Raylan said.

“Not yet. I need more.”

Raylan stopped pumping his hips, but kept stroking them together. “Can you come like this?”

“Don’t think so,” Tim said. “Let’s try this.” He licked his hand, then spit in the center of his palm for good measure, and slipped it between their bodies, down into his shorts. He nudged Raylan’s hand out of the way, wrapped his long fingers around them, and began stroking. He shifted his hips a bit, circling Raylan’s hips with his legs.

Raylan expression was hooded as he watching Tim’s face. He wasn’t sure what the other man saw, but he started grinding his hips again, and Tim no longer cared. “Yeah, keep that up… won’t be long,” Tim said.

As Raylan found a rhythm, Tim figured out the best angle to cant and rock his hips at so their cocks slid together in the cage of Tim’s fist, the shorts material shoved aside so Tim could feel Raylan’s cock slide with his own. He leaned up and ran his tongue along Raylan’s clavicle where he bore the scars of a vampire bit. Tim bit down—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough that Raylan’s body stuttered, the sounds coming from his throat a precursor to the warm spurts in Tim’s hand. 

Raylan took Tim’s face in his hands, letting his weight and chest fall flush with him, and kissed him deeply sending Tim over the edge.

 

Raylan shifted his weight off Tim and lay on the bed next to him, his eyes half-mast and blinking slowly as he watched Tim’s breathing even out. Tim moved to get up.

“Where ya goin’?” Raylan asked, still drugged by sex endorphins.

“Bathroom.”

“Okay,” Raylan said.

 

When Tim came back, the lamp by the bed was off and he could see that Raylan was already lying in bed with a sheet up to his waist. Tim turned off the bathroom light and let his eyes adjust to the dark room for a moment.

“Come here,” Raylan said. “Sleep with me.”

Tim was glad for the darkness so Raylan couldn’t see his face.

“All right,” Tim said. “Let me get my gun.”

“What?” Raylan sounded more alert.

“Don’t sleep without a gun in reach.”

Tim found his sidearm he’d left on the night table and moved it to the chair on the other side of the bed.  He joined Raylan, lying on his side facing the window so he could reach his gun if anything tried to force the jammer and come through the door.

Raylan rolled over, pressing his body against Tim’s. His hand fell to Tim’s bare hip. “Aww, no shorts?”

Tim turned his head toward Raylan in the darkness to answer. “Drying. You’re really gonna complain that I’m naked in your bed?”

Raylan huffed a partial laugh, then kissed the side of Tim’s mouth. “S’okay. This is nice too,” Raylan said and patted his hip. “Night Tim.”

 

Even with the time difference, Tim woke up at his usual 6:30 in the morning. He contemplated a run but thought better of it since he didn’t know the area well, and dawn was at least an hour away. Tim was extricating himself from Raylan’s octopus hold—one long arm wrapped around his stomach and a leg tangled between Tim’s—when the other marshal woke, mumbling in his ear, “Don’t go.”

Tim rolled onto his back, freeing himself and tucking in closer to Raylan at the same time. “Can’t sleep,” Tim said. “Still on Army time. Might always be.”

“Okay,” Raylan said. His hand slid down Tim’s stomach, his callouses rough on his skin, even rougher when his fingers found his morning wood. “Is this all right?”

“What do you think?” Tim said.

“I think you’d better answer before I change my mind about blowing you.”

“By all means…” Tim said, gesturing with both hands to go ahead.

Raylan pulled the sheet aside and followed with his mouth, swallowing the head of Tim’s cock, then working himself into a rhythm. He placed one palm flat over the soft skin between Tim’s belly and his pubic hair line. Tim wasn’t sure anyone had ever touched him there. Raylan’s other hand nudged Tim’s legs apart in search of his balls.

Tim’s fisted one hand in Raylan’s hair and the other in the sheets. “Can you grab the base?”

Raylan fisted the base of Tim’s cock, stroking it, then going down to meet his hand with this mouth. He followed Tim’s little instructions when he gave them. _Faster, slower, more tongue, roll my balls._ Raylan decided he liked his bossiness.

“Yeah, like that.” Tim’s voice was soon breathy. “Aw god, soon.”

Raylan picked up the pace, ignored Tim’s universal head tap, and swallowed him down.

 

Raylan tucked in beside Tim, his hand on his chest, tracing over the tattoo over Tim’s left pec—a Death skull directly above a wooden stake crossed with both a machete and a sniper’s rifle. He hadn’t spent much time the night before examining the symbol of Tim’s preternatural ranger unit coupled with the symbol of his nickname to the undead community.

“Go back to sleep,” Raylan whispered

Surprisingly Tim did.

 

The next time they woke up was close to 8:00 am, and they were scrambling for their ringing phones.


	7. Chapter 7

Raylan and Tim didn’t wake up until their phones starting going off. First Raylan’s, then Tim’s, then Raylan’s again.

“Givens,” Raylan answered on the first ring the second time around.

“Are you two still asleep?” 

“Well hi Art. It’s barely eight. So yes.”

“Get up. I need you two to get out to some strip mine out by Cranks Creeks. They’ve got some kind of zombie uprising there.”

“Shit,” Raylan said. He pulled the phone away from his mouth. “Tim, we got to go.”  The other marshal was already out of bed. The curve of Tim’s back had its own gravitational pull on Raylan’s eyes as he watched Tim step into his boxer briefs. He forced himself to look away as Tim slid them up to his hips. “Why do they have zombies at a mine?”

“Apparently, they’re employees,” Art said.

Raylan cursed. “There are laws governing the use of the dead as slave labor.”

“Don’t know what to tell you about that Raylan. I’m thinking that’s something you’ll look into when you get there. All we know is their zombies are out of control, and they called in for assistance from the US Marshal’s Preternatural branch—which means you and Tim. Rachel is going to send GPS coordinates to your phones. You stayed at the Comfort Inn in Harlan, right?”

“Yeah. Who’s in charge at the scene? Have they brought in an extermination team?”

“Staties. You’re closer than an extermination team at the moment. I don’t think it’ll stay that way, but they’re reluctant to set fire to them in the middle of a mining operation. I’ll have the staties call you,” Art said.

“Give us ten minutes to check out.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll extend your room for another night. After this mess, you two still need to look into the Boyd and Bo Crowder feud.”

***

Raylan and Tim threw on clothes, grabbed their weapons and computers, then headed off to the mine.

“What the hell is a zombie uprising?” Tim asked.

“You got me,” Raylan said. “Zombies can be active during daylight hours, but they’d rather hole up and wait for darkness.”

Raylan’s cell rang. “Givens.”

“Trooper Tom Bergen here, Chief Deputy US Marshal Art Mullen suggested I call you. Says you’re a zombie expert.”

“I’m an animator. We’re heading your way now.” Tim was driving, setting the GPS. “I figure we’re twenty minutes out tops. I’ve got Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson from the P-SOG branch with me.  Gonna put you on speaker.”

Tim turned onto the highway.

“The more help who knows what we’re dealing with the better. Just stay on 421 and you won’t miss it. It’s the strip mine on the right with all the emergency vehicles,” the trooper said.

“I thought this was out by Cranks Creek,” Raylan said, turning the GPS to look at the route. Tim gave him a frustrated look and turned it back in his direction.

“That’s just the name of the mining operation,” Bergen said.

“What’s the situation?” Tim asked.

“Mining company has a group of zombie labor that got out of control and killed one man. For now, we herded them back, but they took cover in several of the mining holes the company had been drilling into the coal seam. They won’t come out, and we’re afraid to send anyone in after them because at least one is dangerous. It attacked the foreman charged with their control. Does that make sense to you?” Bergen asked.

“Sounds like the foreman was probably in the protection circle when the animator raised the zombie and charged him with controlling it,” Raylan said. “Zombies can lose control when they become flesh-eaters.”

“I’ll take your word for it, but foreman’s dead now,” the trooper said.

Tim turned to Raylan, and they shared a concerned look. A dead human on site meant a raised the level of culpability for all holding responsibility for the foreman’s death. It also meant that they had more reign to take down the preternatural creatures involved. The animator could be held accountable for magical malfeasance—which could mean a life-long prison term or even the death penalty.

“What’s the ETA on an extermination team?” Tim asked. Fire was the only effective way of putting down an out-of-control zombie outside of an animator, necromancer, or a Vaudun practitioner capable of taking control of it.

“The closest team is in Lexington. Three hours at best,” Tom said. “But it’s not an option anyone wants to explore until we get them out of the augered holes. Right now, they’ve taken cover essentially in the coal seam the company is excavating. We light them up, we light up the seam, and it keeps burning underground. Could be for decades.”

“What’s an augered hole?” Tim asked.

“The company drills straight into a wall where the coal seam is, pulling out the coal. Leaves a tunnel. Then they move about a foot over and make another and then another. Looks like a row of culverts in the side of a hill,” Bergen explained.

Raylan watched Tim’s locked-down expression. “Can you just auger the zombies along with the coal?”

“Christ, you P-SOG guys are scary,” Bergen said.

Tim smiled in response, and Raylan gave the phone a dark look. “Yeah, that’s why we have them, Trooper. Gotta have someone scarier than the monsters to keep them in line,” Raylan said.

“Monsters?” Bergen asked. “Not very PC of you Marshal.”

Raylan sighed. “PC enough to use when they’re acting like monsters. When you’ve taken down as many bad preternatural creatures, and humans, as we have, you get to call them monsters when the term applies.”

“These zombies… they’re the family of locals who the company contracts and pays to use as labor. Some of them were miners during their lifetimes. Folks around here won’t be thinking of them as monsters.”

Raylan shook his head. “So, you’re telling me the mining company won’t hire living miners, but it will pay their families to hire dead ones,” he said. Raylan knew he sounded judgmental when Tim side-eyed him. He shrugged at Tim and mouthed, “It’s shitty.”

“Not my policy marshals. But we can’t use the drills on them like Gutterson suggested. The company doesn’t want the coal contaminated with the body parts of its miners—living, dead or undead.”

Raylan sighed. “Shit. Any consolation, I don’t think that would work. If you cut off a zombie’s hand, the hand keeps coming along with the rest of it. The parts don’t stop being animated when you make them smaller.”

“They’re contained for now. Do you have an idea of how to get the zombies out and contain them before nightfall?”

“I do. We’ll see you when we get there, Trooper.” Raylan hung up.

“What are you planning to do?” Tim asked.

“I’m going to tell them to stop, then inter them.”

“Easy as that?”

Raylan smiled.

***

Bergen wasn’t kidding when he said they couldn’t miss the scene. Tim approached the turn-off a moment after Raylan hung up. Emergency personnel and vehicles littered the access road into the mining area. Tim lowered his window and flashed his badge and ID at the Harlan County Sherriff’s deputy manning the entry into the strip mine.

“Well, Art wanted us to get to know the local LEOs today and find out more about the Crowders,” Tim said. “I count how many agencies… four including us?” Tim ticked off his fingers. “County, local PD, staties, wait, is that Fish and Wildlife? Five then.”

“I think you missed the Tennessee Valley Authority and the local constable,” Raylan said, looking out at the various sedans and trucks Tim passed.

“Why’s the TVA here? Coal’s not under their purview, is it?”

“Didn’t think so. There’s probably someone from coal on their way.”

Tim parked. “What do we need from the back?”

“A little machine gun would be nice.”

“Okay,” Tim said.

“You have one back there, don’t you?”

Tim gave him a closed-mouthed smile.

“Geardo.”

Tim’s smile widened showing Raylan his teeth.

“I’ll probably just need my machete and my zombie kit,” he said, releasing his seatbelt and opening the passenger-side door.

“Raylan,” Tim said in warning voice.

Raylan stopped and turned back to him, alarmed.

“You’re not going to make me run around Harlan requisitioning a flock hillbilly chickens so you can put a bunch of zombies back in the ground all night long, are you?”

Raylan grinned. “No promises. Got other things in mind for all night. You owe me a blowjob if I recall.” He got out of the SUV before Tim could reply.

Tim caught up to him talking to Tom Bergen and handed Raylan his machete and a US Marshals blue jacket with yellow letters.

“Put it on,” Tim said.

“It’s warming up.” Raylan said. “I don’t need it.”

Bergen looked back and forth between the two men. Tim’s attention was physically on Raylan, but he moved his eyes to Bergen illustrating to Raylan that they had an avid audience.

“Fine,” Raylan said.

***

A few hours later, Raylan and Tim, Tom Bergen, the county sheriff, Harlan city police chief, and several mine company employees were standing around a video display unit displaying a feed from one of their mining video imaging units they’d sent into the first drivage. The idea was to find how exactly how many zombies were hiding in each drivage along the highwall the company’s miners had been drilling into. Initially, Tim had tried using his rifle scope with night vision to look down into the shafts, but there wasn’t enough ambient light deep in the shafts for him to see anything.

Raylan tried commanding them from the mouth of the cave vocally—but they didn’t know which zombie was in which cave. If he couldn’t call them by name, he’d need to touch them and maybe feed them his blood in order to command them. Raylan thought they’d try a series of actions. They’d figure out which zombie was which, then he’d call out and try to command it. If that didn’t work, he planned coax them out with raw meat—like baiting a hook. If one had turned into a flesh eater, it would go after the bait. Short of that, he’d have to go in after them. Then, he’d command them to submit. 

They also weren’t sure which drivage contained the zombie that had killed the hoard’s foreman. The miners on hand seemed to feel they’d be able to recognize him when they saw him.

The first zombie they came across was a decomposing mess. They found him about 15 feet into the hole, curled up and staring the empty gaze of the dead. Raylan was surprised that the miners could recognize him enough to name him.

“Do you recognize him?” Raylan asked. 

One of the miners said they thought it looked like Corbin Shackleford.

“Hear me, Corbin Shackelford,” Raylan said, he knelt and peered into the shaft in the rock face, his machete in one hand and his other hand flat against the cool stone. He stretched out with his necromancy to get a feel for Corbin physically. “Corbin Shackelford, come out here.”

He heard movement in the shaft and backed up a few feet. Tim came to stand beside him, adjacent to the shaft opening.

“If you can’t control it, get out of the way and I’ll incapacitate it,” Tim said.

“I know,” Raylan said. “It was my plan.”

The zombie was now visible to Raylan, crawling toward the opening of the shaft. 

“If it’s all the same, I like you even with or behind me when I start swinging,” Tim said.

“It’s almost out,” Raylan said.

Tim’s held a long axe like a baseball bat, ready to swing if needed.

Corbin Shackelford wasn’t tall in life or death. Tim figured he could behead him easily if it got that far.

Raylan wasn’t as satisfied with Corbin’s appearance. The zombie was the shambling dead. He was decomposing. The power of the animator who’d brought him to life was waning, if it had ever been all that strong to begin with. Raylan still hadn’t figured out what work the zombies were assigned. That would come later. He moved forward and laid a hand on Corbin’s shoulder.

“Corbin Shackelford, be still.” Raylan have the command an extra push of power and felt a tingle that told him there was a current.

Raylan sliced the sharp blade of his machete across the top of his arm, not far from the healing cut he’d created the night before when raising Bowman. He wiped the blood from the machete across the zombie’s mouth.

“Corbin Shackelford, by blood and by steel, as I feed you, you will obey me.”  The zombie’s broken tongue crossed the blood on its lips. It looked at Raylan.

“Yes,” Corbin said. His voice was broken with disuse.

“I command you to climb into this van to wait in peace. You will obey all law enforcement officers until I return you to your grave.” The marshal offices out of London and Pikeville both had each supplied an eight-passenger prison transport van. Marshals from their offices were hanging around. Neither office had a preternatural division.

And Corbin did exactly as Raylan said.

The next three zombies were huddled together not far from the entrance of augered hole and submitted to Raylan easily. The fifth was hiding deeper in his chosen shaft and either wouldn’t respond to Raylan’s command, couldn’t hear it, or didn’t feel Raylan’s necromancy pushing it. Worse, they’d identified the zombie as Willie Luther Cain, the zombie who’d killed its foreman earlier that day.

After a fairly long argument about how to drop raw meat tethered to a cord further in the shaft, the mining officials drew a line. They didn’t want their expensive equipment attached to bait that might not hold up to a rabid zombie.

Raylan didn’t blame them so much. Zombies weren’t stronger than humans like weres or vampires, but zombies didn’t feel pain or fatigue. They just never stopped and could be relentless.

Growing impatient with the back and forth between the LEOs and the mining company, Tim volunteered to take the bait in. He’d crawled through worse and faced more deadly foes in the military.

“You have to leave your gun because of the potential or methane gas,” Raylan said. “There’s no ventilation in this drivages.”

“I know,” Tim said. “You sure you don’t want to go in and work your mojo on him?” He knew Raylan didn’t. Closed, tight spaces weren’t Raylan’s forte. And Tim knew hands down, he could maneuver and clear out faster than Raylan could hope to in such a tight space.

Raylan was still chewing on an answer while Tim started strapping on knife sheaths from his vampire kit, then the weapons themselves.

“Don’t worry about it, Raylan. I ran faster through smaller spaces in the military,” Tim said.

Raylan nodded.

Tim crouched in the entrance trying to gauge the best place wear a serrated machete. He couldn’t wear a spine sheath because he’d need to crouch and run. If he crawled, he could to it. But he was hoping not to have to crawl thirty feet on his hands and knees in a coal shaft.

“Couldn’t have made this hole a foot taller?” Tim asked.

Ervin, one of the coal company miners who’d been working with them, had the grace to seem at least sympathetic. “Sorry, we dig at the height of the coal seam, otherwise we contaminate the coal.”

“Right,” Tim said. “No rocks and no zombie parts in the coal. Got it.”

Tim finally decided to attach the machete diagonal to his back. He turned to his bag and dug out a handheld spotlight.

Tim winced when Raylan handed him a chunk of raw meat with a hook and a cord attached to it. He guessed beef or pork heart. “It had to be the heart?” Tim asked.

“Smell of organ meat is stronger,” Raylan said.

“You can find a butchered cow heart in Harlan, but not a live chicken?” Tim asked. He started working the hook out of the organ.

“Constable Bob found it for us.”

“You’re determined to put me off meat altogether,” Tim said, freeing the heart.

Raylan smiled slyly, his eyes narrowed and glinting. “Don’t think that’s my goal at all.”

“You’re more twisted that I am,” Tim said, working his lips into a controlled scowl. “All the Super-SOG guys are going to laugh at me next time I cut out a vamp’s heart but can’t eat a burger.”

They were standing just outside the open mouth of the shaft. Tim handed Raylan the hook and cording, and took one of his knives to start cutting pieces off the heart. “What are you doing?”

“This lure might work if the zombie was part fish or alligator,” Tim said. “I’m thinking something more along the lines of starting with breadcrumbs and leading him out.”

“Try not to let him bite you,” Raylan said.

“You know something about zombie bites that I don’t?” Tim asked, pausing with concern.

“Nasty business. Prone to infection,” Raylan said. After a pause, he added, “Be careful.”

Tim cocked his head in response. “I have all my shots. It’s just a zombie,” Tim said and grinned. They both knew he knew better than to underestimate the situation. “Gee Raylan, you’re gonna make me think you care.”

Tim ducked out before Raylan could respond and started moving into the shaft. He figured the augered hole was about a foot shorter than he was. He could either walk bent over at the waist or crouched down. Until things went sideways, he planned to stay on his feet. As a Ranger, he’d been no stranger to moving around in a crouching or crawling position if it came to that.

A tar-like smell, that permeated the shaft and reminded him of driving up on freshly laid layer of asphalt, grew more concentrated as he moved further in the shaft. When he thought he was a good 10 feet into the shaft, he locked the spotlight’s trigger into the on position and tipped it against the wall, letting the light beam get lost in the darkness. The spotlight wouldn’t generate enough light for him to see well, but it would provide enough ambient light for his night vision rifle scope to be effective. The zombie had been human—Willie Luther Cain, in fact—before he’d died and then raised as a zombie; Willie’s vision in the dark would be no better than Tim’s. The downside of carrying the scope was he lost a fighting hand.

Mentally tracking his steps, Tim caught sight of the zombie around thirty feet in, just as the video imaging predicted. Willie wasn’t curled up like some of the others had been when they found them with the cameras. The zombie was crouched in a squat. He’d cocked his head like a dog, turning it sharply to the sounds of Tim’s approach. Willie’s milky dead eyes looked more luminously white through the green-tinted night vision scope.

Tim decided to keep his distance and threw a small piece of beef heart toward the zombie the meat landed on the rock floor. Willie appeared to smell it, so Tim whistled the tonal equivalent of yoo-hoo to draw the zombie forward. Willie then pounced forward, faster than Tim would have liked. Raylan hadn’t yet learned what type of work the zombie crew had been doing for the company, but Tim now wondered. The zombie moved more easily than Tim in the shaft. Was it because Willie was used to navigating closed places or was it just because, being dead, walking crouched down didn’t cause muscle strain? Pain wasn’t an issue for zombies, which meant Tim would have to incapacitate Willie to stop him.

Willie shoved the meat into his mouth, and Tim backed away as quietly as he could, taking the small, precise steps of a sniper.

When Tim pulled another ten feet back, he threw another chuck of meat to Willie. Again, he whistled—not unlike clicker-training one of his dogs. Willie scrambled forward again, again too fast for Tim to match.  He’d had hopes of waving a chunk of meat in front of zombie and slowly leading him from the shaft. That clearly wasn’t going to happen.

Tim saw the spotlight he’d dropped earlier and estimated that he was about ten feet from the opening while the zombie was still a good fifteen feet in. Moving slowly backwards, Tim slid the night scope into one of his pockets and pulled one of his knives from a wrist sheath so he could cut a chunk of meat to throw off the heart. He didn’t think he’d need more than a couple smaller pieces before he came in. He carved off a smaller bribe for Willie.

The scent of the heart must have drawn the zombie’s attention because Willie flew out of the darkness at him. Instinctively, Tim dropped the heart and his weapon and grabbed ahold of Willie and rolled backwards using Willie’s momentum and Tim’s legs to throw the zombie back toward the entrance of the shaft. He figured that he’d gotten the zombie close to the five-foot mark.

“Incoming Raylan,” Tim yelled. He grabbed his knife and sheathed it, then crawled forward toward the light.

Raylan was squatted down smearing blood over Willie’s mouth, speaking a ritual to him. Instead of submitting, the zombie started thrashing like a bath-salts junkie.

“Shit,” Raylan said. “I can’t control him.”

Tim jumped forward, pinning a writhing Willie down with his weight—shoving his elbows onto the zombie’s shoulders.

“Raylan, take the machete out of its sheath on my back and behead him,” Tim said.

“I’m holding one,” Raylan said.

“S’not serrated,” Tim said. He tucked his chin and shoved the top of his head under the zombie’s chin to further immobilize him and give Raylan easy access the weapon on Tim’s back. He felt the weapon leave its sheath. “Ready?” Tim asked.

“As soon as you move,” Raylan said.

“Hold his arms for me,” Tim said.

Raylan grabbed the zombies arms while Tim shifted back to sit on the zombie’s hips digging his knees into his shoulders. He waved a hand at Raylan. “Give me his arms one at a time.”

Tim crossed the zombies’ arms, pinning them down to its chest. “Do it,” Tim said. “He’s not going to stop fighting.”

Raylan knelt down examining the zombie’s upper arms. “What the hell is this?” Raylan said as he slid one of Tim’s knives from his forearm sheaths.

“Don’t know. But stop fucking around,” Tim said. Willie was shifting under him, and Tim was afraid he’d lose his hold.

Raylan slid the knife through the leather band and dropped it on the rock floor beside Tim. Willie fell limp.

“Willie Luther Cain, with blood and with steel, as I feed you I command you,” Raylan smeared more blood from his fresh cut on his machete, then wiped it on Willie’s mouth. The zombie turned to Raylan and said, “Yes.”

“You can let him up,” Raylan said. 

Tim let go of the zombie’s arms and he didn’t attack, so Tim retreated standing up as much as he could.  Raylan handed him his knife. Tim wiped the blood on the zombie’s leg and sheathed it. 

“What is that thing?” Tim said pointing to the band the zombie had been wearing.  Objects were sewed onto the leather—what he could recognize was a feather, a bird foot. Probably chicken, with Tim’s luck.

“A gris-gris. Vaudun in nature. Probably why he went crazy,” Raylan said. He commanded the zombie to follow him. Tim collected his toys and followed Raylan and the zombie out of the shaft and into the light.

Raylan directed someone from forensics to collect the armband and handed Willie over to the exterminators with a command to obey them. The evidence of the gris-gris wouldn’t save Willie’s body from exterminators’ flamethrowers, but it went a long way toward explaining why the zombie lost control.

***

By late afternoon, Raylan and Tim had smoked out all the zombies from their hiding places and into transport vans awaiting nightfall. Willie was taken out into the field across the highway from the mine for extermination. Raylan grimaced when he saw the smoke.

Raylan sat in the back of an ambulance eating a protein bar Tim had forced on him while the EMTs treated the cuts on he’d made on his forearms. They gave him a tetanus shot he assured them he didn’t need. He’d sent Tim to feel out some of the locals about Boyd and Bo Crowder. It’d been a long day, and Raylan still needed to inter the zombies waiting in the transport vans back into their graves come nightfall.

Tom Bergen was waiting for him when the EMTs let him go.

“Can you put all these zombies back?” the trooper asked.

“Yes. After dark. How are we doing with the records of where they were originally buried?” Raylan said.

“We’ve got a list and a map. Harlan’s a small town. Doesn’t have that many cemeteries… not counting the ones on family land. The constable has a plan so we drop off everyone from one cemetery before we move on to the next.”

“Fun. A zombie carpool caravan,” Raylan said. “Which one is first on the list?”

“Resthaven,” Bergen said. “Then you have to head out of town.”

“I’ll be there at dusk. About 7:30 I figure,” Raylan said. “Tim and I have some errands to run if we’re going to put down this many zombies tonight.”

“All right. I’ll let the London and Pikeville marshals know when to meet you,” Bergen said.

Tim strolled up about that time. “I already talked to them. They’re meeting us at dusk and keeping watch over the zombies in the meantime.”

Raylan nodded. “Hey Tom, did you ever find out what the company was using them for?” Raylan said.

“Manual labor mostly. Hauling and crawling in places they didn’t want to send the living,” Bergen said. “If they had the knowledge in their lifetimes, they drove some smaller vehicles. Cars. Trucks. Nothing expensive. They did some of the grunt work high up. Zombies don’t die when they fall off a cliff like the living miners do.”

Raylan shook his head. “Who was the animator?”

“Now that you ask, there’s something a bit strange there.  A Helen Givens.  Any relation?”

“Shit,” Raylan said.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** technical edits made 1/13/17 (no content changes)

“Where are we headed?” Tim said when Raylan climbed into the front seat of the SUV. “We have about five hours before we need to meet the Pikeville and London marshals.”

Raylan didn’t answer him at first so Tim left the gear in park and adjusted the air conditioning. It was fall pushing toward Halloween, but the day had gone past warm. Raylan had abandoned his Marshals jacket not long after noon.

“We need to go talk to my aunt,” Raylan said.

Tim reached back behind Raylan’s seat and came up with a bag. He dug around and handed Raylan a protein bar. “Eat this and give me directions,” Tim said. “We’ll try to stop and eat later.”

“Not sure how much time we’ll have. We still need to find some chickens,” Raylan said.

“Oh no. No.” Tim shifted into drive and then circled around, heading back to the highway on the mining access road.

“I need a protective blood circle to put them down,” Raylan mumbled, his jaw set. “No way around it.”

“Great,” Tim mumbled, then cleared his throat. “I felt out some of the locals about Bo Crowder. The Harlan LEOs were tight-lipped, but some of the staties were willing to talk a bit. Seems like the vampire master thing is new… about five or six years, which you knew. But he’s been a player in the area for years, more than anyone can remember. You name it, he’s been into it. Drugs. Prostitutes. Black market whatever.”

“Huh,” Raylan said.

“You knew Boyd when you two were kids, right?” Tim said. “You remember Bo back then?”

“Yeah. Hasn’t changed much. Pretty much the same as he was back then,” Raylan said.

“And does that strike you odd?” Tim poked at Raylan.

“It does actually,” Raylan drawled. “He wasn’t a vampire when we were kids. And I’d swear he’s no older than six years dead.”

Tim was quiet for a moment. “How do you know?”

Raylan took a deep breath. “My necromancy,” he said.

“Wait, I thought you were an animator,” Tim said. “Necromancers are….”

“I know, scary,” Raylan said. “Dubious.”

“They put necromancers to death some places in Eastern Europe. Kill them on sight.”

“Really?” Raylan said. “I wonder how they know them on sight.”

“You know what I mean. I’ve never heard that about you,” Tim said. “The necromancy.”

“Is that a problem?” Raylan said.

“No. I just wonder why you didn’t mention it before,” Tim said.

“Necromancy is a power,” Raylan said. “You and I… we kill creatures whose favorite currency is power. I’m already their boogeyman with my history as an executioner. Don’t need another reason to be higher up on their radar.”

“So this aunt we’re going to see… is she a necromancer too?” Tim said.

“You saw the shape of those zombies at the mine. They were the shambling dead,” Raylan said. “My mother probably could have been a necromancer. She was stronger than Aunt Helen, but Arlo never approved.”

“Arlo?”

“My father.”

Tim nodded. “You can tell the age of vampires and sense them. What else comes with necromancy?”

“Power over the dead… zombies, vampires. I can raise more zombies than most animators. I’m probably harder to kill than most humans.”

“Nice. Makes my job easier,” Tim said.

***

Tim followed Raylan’s directions out to a tired, worn house amid barren fields. Dust flew up behind the SUV at they hit the driveway, and Tim pulled up around the back of the house. Or he thought it was the back. He had a great aunt with a house like this one growing up. Everyone used her front door as the back door and her front door opened to the side of the house.

He peeked out the window to take in both stories of the house. “You grew up here?”

Raylan hadn’t moved to release his seatbelt. “I did.” Raylan clicked his belt open and was out of the SUV the next moment.

Tim followed up Raylan’s pigeon-toed gait up the leaf-strewn walk taking in the rusted swing set with a tire for a swing.

“When were you last home?” Tim asked.

“Too long.” 

“You play on that swing when you were a kid?” Tim asked.

Raylan nodded. “I’d have thought they woulda cleared that out by now.”

Tim took in weathered white paint and the plants growing out of an old claw-foot tub. Place was a mess, but someone had been pulling weeds around the flowers in the tub. Someone cared. To a point anyway.

“Waiting on grandkids, maybe?” Tim asked.

Raylan turned and looked him. “You offering?”

Tim scowled.

“Didn’t think so. ’Sides, I remember that swing. Death trap. No way I’d allow a kid of mine anywhere near it,” Raylan said. “Or here, for that matter.”

Raylan didn’t speak again until an older woman opened the door to their knocking.

“Raylan Givens, you should be ashamed.”

“Aunt Helen,” Raylan said. “This is Deputy Tim Gutterson—a fellow marshal. We need to talk to you about some zombies you raised for a local mining company.”

She squinted at them through the screen, a just-lit cigarette pressed between her lips. “That’s just what I’m talking about Raylan,” she said. “You been in Kentucky how long and you only show up to nose into our business with the miners?”

Raylan sighed. “Only been here a few days, Helen. You mind if we come in?”

She shrugged and pushed the screen door open. She was already past the area that served as an entry way and a landing for stairs that Tim assumed led upstairs. “You know the way,” she said.

As they entered the house, Tim peeked around down a short hall into a small kitchen, seeing no one in the room. Raylan followed her into a big living room area with windows that banked two sides of the property. Tim’s eyes roamed the room from left to right for potential threats, then moved on to spot-check what looked like a dining room. He shook his head. No one was in the room, but someone had a frightening collection of ceramic and milk-glass hens and roosters stacked haphazardly on a beat-up baker’s rack cabinet. What was it with Raylan, his family, and chickens?

Satisfied no one else was downstairs, Tim tucked his hands behind his back and shifted his observation from situational awareness to collecting pieces of Raylan in the details of his childhood home and the people who still lived in it.

“Arlo home?” Raylan asked.

“Nope, down at the VFW,” Helen replied. “He’ll be sorry he missed you.” She sank down into an easy chair and went back to work on what looked like a stack of lottery scratch-off tickets.

“Huh. Not sure about that,” Raylan said.

“He will,” she insisted. “He does miss you.”

Raylan laughed harshly. Tim eased across the room, putting Raylan, his aunt and the door they’d entered through in his sights.

“You hear what went down at the Cranks Creek mine yet?” Raylan said.

Helen’s gaze sharpened on Raylan. “No, what?”

“One of the zombies you raised killed its foreman,” Raylan said. “You have that foreman with you in the power circle when you raised them?”

“No, that’s impossible,” she said. “How?”

“What were you thinking raising these men and handing them over the mining companies?” Raylan asked, his voice broken. “That goes against everything you and Mama taught me about animatin’.”

“I….,” Helen started.

“You what?” Raylan demanded. 

“We need the money Raylan,” she said. “Look around. We’re old and your father can’t work.”

“Helen, one of your zombies killed a man. You know we could arrest you, right? You could face the death penalty for magical malfeasance,” Raylan countered.

“Raylan, honey, you know there’s no way I’d ever—” Helen said.

Tim watched Raylan’s eyes close. “I know. But that doesn’t bring the man back.”

“I can’t go to jail,” Helen said.

“You could,” Raylan said. “Instead you’re going to help me put every one of those men back in their graves tonight.”

“Raylan…” Tim started. If Raylan had Helen help inter the remaining zombies, if the AUSA wanted to bring a case against Helen later, the evidence would be tainted. “You know she can’t…”

“No Tim,” he said. “You saw the gris-gris. The moment we cut it from the zombie, it fell dead. Someone else was controlling it. She didn’t do this.” 

Raylan’s eyes met Tim’s, and it felt like a plea. Tim took that in, but his eyes kept wandering over to check how Helen was digesting this news.  She’d put out her cigarette and had wandered over to a closet in the entry way, pulling out a tube-shaped, blue duffel bag with Evarts High School Baseball in gold across the side. Tim didn’t understand the relationship Raylan had with this woman, but she was as sharp as her nephew.

“All right. I’m ready to go when you are,” she said, standing straight. “We’ll need some hens.”

Tim rubbed his hand over his eyes.

***

Tim watched as Raylan knelt facing his aunt in the third and last cemetery of the night. He explained how he was acting as her focus that night at their first stop. Tim just nodded along to his explanation and forced him into one of the navy US Marshals jackets that the older marshal begrudgingly wore, but had shoved the sleeves up to his elbows as the night progressed. Raylan and his aunt had been making matching cuts on their arms all night and pressing them together before they put each zombie back into the earth from which Helen had taken them.

At the second cemetery, Tim had had to chase back the Harlan city version of the press: a newspaper photographer and a reporter buzzing around him asking questions. He tucked a Marshals ball cap down over his face. No reason to advertise what he looked like. He figured with Raylan being a hometown boy there wasn’t much he do about people recognizing him.

Back in the car after all the zombies had been put back to rest, Tim drove to the funeral home to drop off the chickens. Helen offered to take them, but Raylan side-eyed her and insisted they drop them off. Official Marshal business and all. Tim wondered if she would have eaten them.

***

When they pulled up at the Givens house, Helen cleared her throat. “Arlo’s home. Probably best if you don’t come in,” she said.

From the backseat came a grunt. “I thought you wanted me to visit him,” Raylan said.

“Well, it’s late Raylan,” Helen countered.

Tim wasn’t sure what her tell was, but Raylan must have heard it in her voice. “What don’t you want me to see Helen?”

“Raylan, best just leave Arlo be for the night,” Helen said.

“I’m not ten and scared anymore,” Raylan said. “Is there a reason Arlo would be in one of his moods?”

Helen didn’t answer. Tim parked the car and turned it off. And waited out the silence between the two of them.

“Helen.” Raylan’s tone was one of warning, daring her to answer. She didn’t take him up on it. 

And she didn’t have to. Because a white-haired older man took up that dare instead by barreling down the sidewalk in their direction brandishing a baseball bat above his right shoulder.

Tim was halfway out of the SUV when heard Raylan and Helen in stereo say, “Shit, Arlo.”

Arlo was mid-swing, the bat arcing down from high off the old man’s right side aimed directly at Tim when the younger marshal rushed into Arlo’s personal space incapacitating Arlo’s swing, then forcing the man to drop the bat. Tim used the momentum to shove the old man into a spin so he could wrap his arm around the man’s neck in a choke hold. Tim was sinking to his knees to take the older Givens man down to the ground when he registered the yelling around him.

“You get your hands off him!” Helen hollered at him. “He’s just an old man.”

On his knees, Tim’s eyes crept over to Raylan, standing with his aunt. He had ahold of his aunt’s upper arm and his father’s bat in his other hand. Arlo was still struggling against the choke hold. Tim wondered if Raylan hadn’t there, would Helen have bashed him over the head with the bat?

“Mr. Givens. I’m Deputy US Marshal Gutterson. If you stop struggling, I’ll let go.”

“Kiss my ass,” Arlo said, and shoved a well-aimed elbow back hitting just north of Tim’s groin.  

“Call 911 Raylan,” Tim said, then he tightened his hold and five seconds later Arlo was out cold, laid flat on his back in his side yard, back yard, or was it the front yard? Tim never did figure out which side of the house was the front when they were here before, even after he’d been inside the house.

“Is he all right? You didn’t kill him, did you?” Helen asked.

Arlo’s pulse was strong when Tim checked it. The man’s breathing was consistent, and Tim figured he’d have about thirty seconds tops before the man was conscious again. It was anyone’s guess if he came to fighting or not. Tim decided not to take any chances.

“He’s fine, but we’ll get him checked out anyway,” Tim said. “Handcuffs Raylan?”

A clinking thump landed next to Tim’s knee. He restrained Arlo’s wrists in front of him.

“You don’t need to do that,” Helen said.

“Aunt Helen,” Raylan said. “He attacked a law enforcement officer. Tim’s just making sure he doesn’t come up fighting.”

“He’s not well, Raylan,” Helen said, hushed. She went on to tell her nephew how his father had had a heart attack, had been diagnosed with PTSD, and was bipolar to boot. 

Tim rubbed his forehead as he continued to monitor Raylan’s father, wondering how far the father favored the son. He could see where the two men shared a strong jawline. He wondered if Raylan’s ears would stick out as much as Arlo’s when he was an old man. Tim thought he’d read somewhere that your nose and ears never stop growing. He was purposely trying not to think about what being a bipolar necromancer would mean for Raylan if he lost that particular genetic lottery.

Tim checked Arlo’s breathing again and tried massaging the man’s carotid artery, concerned because the old man should already be regaining consciousness.

“Get your faggot hands off me,” Arlo ground out, his voice tight and mean.

“All right then,” Tim said. “I think he’s gonna be okay. Mr. Givens, we’re going to need you to stay where you are.”

“It’s my damned land. You’re the one trespassing,” Arlo said. “Get the hell out of here.”

Tim felt Raylan’s hand on his shoulder. “Come on Tim, I got this.” He offered Tim his hand. Tim took it and they pulled on each other’s strength until they were standing side by side. “Do me a favor and take Helen inside.”

Tim could hear sirens off in the distance. He wondered when Raylan had called it in. “They need to check him out at least. Your call on the charges,” Tim said.

Raylan nodded. “I expect they’ll hold him under a 202A if what Helen said was true about the bipolar diagnosis.”

Tim nodded and leaned in to whisper in Raylan’s ear. “Meeting your folks coulda gone worse.”

Raylan snorted. “How?”

“I coulda shot him,” Tim said, fighting a smile.   

Raylan smiled for him. “Go watch my aunt until the medics get here.”

“Mrs. Givens?” Tim gestured toward the door and followed her into the house.

***

Helen and sat down at the dining room table, waving him into a chair across from her, then she poured whiskey way too close to the brim of a jelly-jar glass and pushed it in front of him.

“I really can’t—” Tim started.

“Shut up and drink,” Helen told him. She poured herself an equally tall measure of alcohol and downed about half of it. “It’s going to be a long night, and I’m tuckered from laying down all those zombies.”

Tim nodded. “What happened out there? I heard what you told Raylan. Is he off his meds?”

Helen snorted. “Probably. And more likely he’s stinking drunk. I expect he heard Raylan was making me put all the zombies back.”

Tim nodded. “Why would that matter?”

“Those zombies for the mining company… they bring in a lot of money that we need,” Helen said.

Tim took a sip of his drink and cursed. “Dammit. What the…” Tim ran the back of his thumb across his bottom lip to find it came away bloody. His glass had a chip in the rim he hadn’t noticed.

Helen smirked. “Sorry Marshal. Arlo tends to drop the dishes into the sink. Breakables be damned,” she said.

Tim didn’t think she looked sorry. He licked his thumb and rubbed the blood off the glass, thinking it probably wasn’t a great idea for him to leave it behind. Apparently being an animator in Raylan’s family didn’t mean what it meant everywhere else in the world.

“No problem. Call me Tim,” he said, smiling without using his eyes. He turned his glass, ran a finger across the edge to confirm the rim was smooth and downed a long swallow, ignoring the burn in his throat.

“Do you raise zombies for anyone but the mining companies?” Tim asked.

“Oh no, you have to be licensed. I did it for a favor for Arlo’s friend Bo,” Helen said. “Didn’t hurt that Bo paid well. He’s not going to be happy either.”

“You’re not talking about Bo Crowder, are you?” Tim asked.

Helen gave him a measured look. “What do you care about Bo Crowder?”

Tim opened his hands in a gesture meant to say, oh nothing. “We ran into him last night. Seems his son Boyd has been giving him some problems. Been some preternatural creatures targeted in the area,” Tim said.

“Raylan ran into Bo Crowder?” she said, sounding concerned.

Tim nodded. “We both did. Said he was the master of the county. Since when does a county have the equivalent of a city master?”

Helen didn’t answer at first. “How old did Raylan think Bo was?”

“Funny you should ask. Said he was six years dead maybe. But felt a lot older,” Tim said.

“If I were to tell you Bo Crowder was a hundred years old if he was a day, what would you think?” Helen asked, her eyes sharp.

Tim thought about it. The LEOs he talked to confirmed that Bo had only been a vampire about six years—that Raylan’s impression was right. If Bo were considerably older, then he had to have been something else with a hell a lot of longevity before he was turned. Tim could only think of one thing.

“Whose human servant was he?” Tim asked.

Helen smiled, a bit like a proud mama. “You’re a smart one. No wonder Raylan likes you so much,” she said.

“Sure, he’s been my partner on some special ops assignments,” Tim said, shrugging. “We work together now and then.”

Helen lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in his direction. “You two do a lot more than work, I bet,” she said.

Tim swallowed down the rest of his whiskey, unsure of what to say because he didn’t know if Raylan was out to his father and aunt. Or was it his step-mother? Tim still wasn’t sure he understood the relationship between Raylan’s father and his wife, his former sister-in-law. Raylan seemed fond of her, said she protected him growing up, and gave him the means to get out of Harlan. But why would she sign on to marry the monster she protected her nephew from?

“Cat got your tongue?” Helen said.

“What do you want me to say?” Tim responded.

“You and Raylan… you’re… what do you call it these days? Dating? Boyfriends?” Helen pressed her point.

“Listen Mrs. Givens—”

“Call me Helen.”

Tim closed his eyes a moment. “All right Helen. If we were doing anything like that, it wouldn’t be only my tale to tell, would it?”

She laughed at him. “You think I don’t know when he’s sweet on someone? I’m the one who taught him how to talk to girls.”

Tim’s mouth fell open for a moment, stunned, because that made so much sense. Raylan had a tendency to treat him like a woman… his courtship techniques leaned toward heteronormative at times: be a gentleman, offer to pay, hold the door… though, he and Raylan both were more likely to argue over who was first through a door so they could clear a room of danger before letting the other follow him in.

Tim nodded finally. “Did anyone ever teach him how to talk to boys?” Tim asked.

“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t Arlo,” Helen said, barking out a laugh. “I’d bet my fee from that last zombie we put down tonight that Boyd Crowder probably had quite a bit to do with that.”

Tim’s eyebrows hiked about the time he heard Raylan’s boots in entry way.

“Helen, you up to riding to the hospital with Arlo? The EMTs think he might be more settled if you ride along. They also need his list of meds,” Raylan said. “We can follow along and bring you home after they get him in a room. They’re keeping him a night at least. Longer probably.”

She rose and began gathering her bag, her cigarettes, and a pillbox from the window pass-through counter between the kitchen and the dining room. 

“Helen,” Tim said, “You never did say what vampire Bo Crowder was a human servant to.”

She looked a bit irked, and Raylan’s head whipped around to Tim, then back to Helen, awaiting her answer. “Don’t know. Some master vampire from Miami, I think. The power went with the drugs and all the rest he ran through Harlan County. That’s all I can say.” With that, she headed for the door.

Raylan gave him a look with big eyes. “Damn, Tim. I need to leave you alone to dig more often,” he said.

“I told you I was good at my job,” Tim said. He palmed the jelly-jar glass with traces of his blood on it and stashed it in the side pocket of his US Marshals jacket. He was pretty sure he didn’t trust Helen Givens with an object marked in his blood.

***

Raylan pulled the door shut behind them.

“You’re not going to lock it?” Tim said, stopping on the porch.

Raylan huffed, heading down the steps to the walkway. “Yeah, not a lot of that around here. Most people know you step into Arlo Givens house uninvited, you’re likely as not to get either buckshot or a bullet for your trouble.”

“Or a bat.”

“Henry Aaron,” Raylan said.

“Huh? Who?” Tim asked.

“It’s a Henry Aaron Louisville Slugger, to be exact,” Raylan said.

“Ah, okay. I missed that when he was aiming for my head,” Tim said. “Good to know he planned to brain me with a classic.” 

Raylan paused when they got to the SUV. The ambulance had already left with Arlo, with the county sheriff’s deputy along with it. He and Tim were alone. “Nice defensive moves,” Raylan said.

“Thanks. Thought it’d be fun to try not shooting someone tonight,” Tim said. “Even though he was asking for it.”

“Arlo’s been asking for a bullet his whole life,” Raylan said.

“Are they holding him?” Tim said.

“Not on assault. They’ll hold him tonight on 202A. Involuntary hospitalization as a danger to others for tonight. Somebody’ll probably talk to Helen about MIW—Mental Inquest Warrant—but I expect she’ll fight them on it—won’t let them keep him the whole three days allowed. Sheriff’s deputy said she’s backed down every time he's lost it.”

“A common occurrence, then?” Tim said.

“Whenever he goes off his meds and adds a bender to it,” Raylan said.

Tim moved closer to Raylan and pushed the brim of Raylan’s hat up, tilting it back on his head. Having cleared access to Raylan, Tim pressed in close and kissed him. Raylan’s lips were firm and still, and then he tilted his head and followed Tim deeper into the kiss, their tongues sliding and exploring.

When they drew apart, Raylan sighed. “What was that for?”

Tim shrugged. “Been a long day. Gonna be a long night. And I owe you a blowjob.”

“Yeah, you owe me a blowjob.” Raylan’s eyes lit up.

“And I intend to deliver… but later… tonight… after you shower. You stink. You smell like dead men and Italian… little bit like rotten sausage. Bowman must have smelled better than I thought he did.”

“Helen’s animation balm. I wore hers since I was acting as the focus. The bond is stronger if we mirror everything in the ritual,” Raylan said. “I promise I didn’t put it anywhere near my dick.” He sounded hopeful.

“I don’t suck cock on the clock,” Tim said, and kissed Raylan once, their lips lingering together, breathing each other’s air for a moment.

“But you drink whiskey on the clock,” Raylan pointed out.

Tim grinned. “Your aunt plied me with it. She’s not a witch is she?”

Raylan rubbed his finger against the side of his bottom lip as if he were thinking. “Probably. Not. I think. Could be. Can’t rule it out.”

“Great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off and always, thank you for reading :)
> 
> I don't have a firm posting schedule... sorry about that. I put down new five chapters this week that I need to edit for continuity on top of the normal spelling/grammar/style crap before they can post. As I firm them up, I'll post them. We'll see how the weekend goes. 
> 
> I, uh, put Gary in room with Tim this week and he popped off his mouth--which I didn't know he was gonna do until the words were there on my screen, forcing me to rewrite the next three chapters of my master outline... redo a part of my primary arc and tweak a major character. I hate that guy; Gary is even annoying in an AU. So that fun is coming your, and my, way. No final chapter count yet... my best guess is between 17 and 19, depending on how many plotlines I find I have to tie off, or what I want to carry over to the next story that won't hurt the resolution of this work. :) 
> 
> Hope you're enjoying this, and again, thanks for reading.


	9. Chapter 9

“Arlo always hated the gift,” Raylan told Tim.

Tim leaned against the doorjamb in a waiting room of the behavioral health unit at the Harlan Appalachian Regional Hospital sipping bitter, burnt black coffee from a Styrofoam cup that he’d wooed a nurse into giving him. Helen was working with the intake nurses getting Arlo settled. They planned to keep him the legal three days the 202A allowed to try to get his meds balanced, then set him up with outpatient treatment at the VA center in Hazard.

Raylan’s hat sat in one chair, while he reclined in a tweed mauve chair next to it. He was sprawled out across the room with his long legs stretched out before him in Tim’s direction, his boots crossed at the ankles. Sitting like this, he looked like all his height was in his legs. But laid out in bed the night before, his height seemed concentrated in his torso between his broad shoulders and his lean hips.

Tim planned to make a study of the man when he finally got him laid out naked at his leisure.

“Gift?”

“Animation. He never wanted my mama to practice—or even be around her people. When I presented...,” Raylan stopped talking.

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say Arlo didn’t approve. Lots of things you can’t beat out of a young man but that never stopped Arlo from trying,” Raylan said.

Tim nodded. “Not just necromancy, I take it.”

Raylan’s eyes lit up to meet Tim’s. “Not just necromancy.”

“You and Boyd Crowder then, this guy we’re hunting….” Tim didn’t speak the question aloud. He could tell from Raylan’s expression he understood the words unsaid.

“Helen told you,” Raylan said.

Tim nodded. “How did you not notice Bo Crowder was a human servant back then?”

“I was a kid when he was still human. And human servants don’t—” Raylan stopped as if he was searching for a word and settled on one with a wiggle of his fingers in front of him “—tingle the same way as vampires, unless their using vampire powers. Bo was just scary, and I was used to daddies bein’ scary. Knew to dodge and duck whenever I could. Boyd was raised by his mama—she worked at the local bawdy house. Bowman’s mama too. Bo owned it. Boyd’s uncle, Johnny’s daddy, ran it,” Raylan said.

“What are the odds that Johnny’s not Bo’s nephew but his grandchild?” Tim asked.

“Huh,” Raylan said. “Never thought of that.” He straightened himself in his chair, sitting upright.

“Question is how Bo made the jump from human servant to vampire,” Tim said.

“Probably turned, then killed his master. My experience, you kill the vampire master, that kills the human servant,” Raylan said. “He must have found a way around it.”

“Helen said he ran what sounded like drugs and a black-market network out of Miami,” Tim said. “We need to talk to Art.”

“Huh,” Raylan said. “How’d she know that, I wonder.”

“Arlo? Said they raised the zombies for Bo’s mining company,” Tim said.

“Now _that_ is interesting.” Raylan stood up, placing his hat on his head. “I wonder how much Bo paid Arlo for those zombies. Candance sets my base at twenty grand for an hour-long court session animation. How many did we put down today?”

“Ten at least,” Tim answered. “Eleven if you count the extermination. Who’s Candace?”

“Agent in Miami who sets up my zombie work. Helen’s not licensed though—no license, no agent. Bergen said the families were paid as well… could be as much as ten grand a zombie each way if I had to guess. Bet you that’s what Arlo was so pissed off about,” Raylan said. “The way this went down, it’d be a one-off for Arlo and the Kentucky Labor Cabinet’ll be up in the mining company’s business for hiring illegal zombie labor.”

“And I thought it was a family squabble,” Tim said.

“Fuel to the fire,” Raylan said. “I wonder what else Bo is into.”

“This Boyd character of yours,” Tim said, “if he hates his father was much as Bowman said, then he’d probably fill us in on Bo’s doings when we track him down tomorrow.”

Raylan stood and sauntered over to Tim, invading his personal space in the doorway. He peeked down the hallway and then brushed his lips against Tim’s ear and settled his right hand on Tim’s abdomen.

“Let’s be clear, Deputy, Boyd is not in any way my character or my anything else,” Raylan whispered into Tim’s ear, his voice deep and gravelly. He dipped his head and pressed a firm kiss to the juncture of Tim’s jawline and his neck, his goatee giving Tim’s goosebumps. “Got it?”

Tim turned this head into Raylan, his eyes landing on the other marshal’s lips then lifting to his eyes. Tim licked his lips, and Raylan grinned. “Got it,” Tim whispered back, feeling like he was holding his breath even though he was sure he wasn’t.

Raylan patted his stomach three times. “Good,” Raylan said. “C’mon, let’s see if they’re ready to let Helen go. I’m about ready to turn in.” 

Raylan was halfway to the nurses’ station before Tim felt like he could breathe evenly again.

***

Tim pulled up the Givens house about three in the morning.

Raylan told him to wait, that he’d see Helen in. Tim turned off the ignition, rolled down his window and waited. Raylan was nearly to the house when he and his aunt stopped by the tiny graveyard next to the house. Tim unabashedly listened to their conversation drift through the quiet night.

“Tell me you cremated my mama before you buried her,” he asked his aunt.

“Arlo wouldn’t allow it,” Helen said.

“Jesus Christ Helen. What were you thinking? She could come back as a flesh-eater or a ghoul. Have you at least had the ground consecrated here lately?”

“Can’t afford that,” she said.

“All it takes is a blessing now and then. How much could that run you?” Raylan said.

“It’s as much Arlo as the money,” Helen said.

“What are you gonna do if the family rises one night as a bunch of ghouls?” Raylan asked.

“Probably won’t with just me around. I’m not much of a draw. You pack a lot more of the Grant power than I ever had,” Helen said.

“That’s not where ghouls come from Helen. It’s not like the roadkill…,” Raylan said. “They infest or turn when the consecration grows old. Mama, being as strong as she was in the Grant line, she’d be vulnerable.”

“I’ll try to talk to Arlo about it when they get his meds straight,” Helen said. “Maybe get a man of cloth out here.”

“She needs to be exhumed and cremated,” Raylan insisted.

“We’ll start with what’s possible Raylan.”

Tim lost track of the conversation after that as Raylan walked his aunt into the house.

Raylan climbed into the SUV a few minutes later. “You heard all that?” Raylan asked.

“I did.”

“Eavesdropping is impolite.”

“It is,” Tim agreed, “but it can be real informative.”

Raylan palmed his hat off, let his head fall back onto the headrest, and closed his eyes. “Let’s go get some sleep.”

***

Back in their Comfort Inn room, Tim herded Raylan into the bathroom.

“Shower first if you want to share a bed,” Tim said. “I meant it when I said you stink. Not to mention, you have chicken blood under your fingernails.”

Raylan grimaced. “Sorry about that. Winona always hated that, too.”

“Winona the ex-wife?”

Raylan nodded.

“I don’t hate it,” Tim said, working Raylan’s belt open. “But it doesn’t get my rocks off.”

Tim divested them of their clothing, tossing it into the hallway as he went, then tugged Raylan into the shower with him.

After they scrubbed each other down with Raylan’s sandalwood-scented shower gel, Tim crowded Raylan under the showerhead so hot water hit the back of his head, rolling down his body. Tim then fell to his knees before Raylan, one hand loosely circling the base of Raylan’s cock, his hand on resting on Raylan’s hip to steady them both.

With his gray-blue eyes stretched wide up to Raylan’s, Tim began with long flat strokes from the base of Raylan’s cock to the head. He told Raylan to spread his feet a bit more, and Raylan obliged Tim, especially when he sucked the head of his cock into his mouth. Raylan was coming to realize Tim was just naturally bossy when it came to sex. He couldn’t help from wondering if Tim would top from the bottom, the idea painting an image in his mind he had to clamp down on to concentrate on the moment at hand.

Raylan had envisioned watching Tim’s pouty lips wrapped around his cock many times. The hype measured up.

As Tim’s hand moved from his hips to cradle Raylan’s balls, Raylan pressed a palm flat to the shower wall, his fingers arching under the pressure of trying to dig his fingertips into the tiles. He felt Tim’s fingers slide back behind his balls, over the sensitive stem of his cock to his ass.

A finger stroked Raylan’s hole petting him softly, but persistently to relax his muscles. “Is this all right?” Tim asked. 

“Oh yeah,” Raylan said.

“And this?” Tim asked.

Raylan felt the finger push into him. Instinctively, his toes curled up, and his quads tightened. Raylan concentrated on not bearing down on Tim’s finger sliding in and out, the tip curling, searching for the sensitive nerve bundle of his prostate. “Oh god yes.”

Tim gave him one of his crooked-teeth grins, then went back to sucking his cock, one hand gripping his cock with tight short strokes at the base, his other hand massaging him from the inside. Raylan’s hand found Tim’s hair. “Can I?”

Tim hummed, then pulled off as Raylan groaned.

“Can you what?”

Raylan dug his fingers into Tim’s wavy hair, his hold firm.

“Sure darlin’,” Tim said, then he shifted the angle of Raylan’s cock and swallowed enough length that Raylan thought his knees were going to give.

Tim used the grip of his finger planted inside Raylan to tug him closer, to encourage him to shift his hips. Raylan got the message and fucked Tim’s mouth.

“Fuck Gutterson, I’m going to cum if you keep….” Raylan mumbled.

Tim backed off, then bore down, sucking hard on the head of Raylan’s cock, while flicking the nerves in his ass quickly. Raylan saw white flash behind his eyes when he came hard down Tim’s throat.

Later, when he was falling asleep in bed with Tim curved around his back, he didn’t think about Arlo’s quiet, nasty words while they’d waited for the ambulance. He didn’t think about how corrupt his favorite aunt had become living with his father.

He thought that if Tim hadn’t hugged his legs after he’d come, he’d have collapsed and taken Tim and the shower curtain down with him.

***

Raylan and Tim found Boyd Crowder the next morning in an abandoned church out near Sukey Ridge. Art confirmed that morning Boyd no longer had any property in this name after his last stint in Alderson for tax evasion—the Marshal Service had taken possession of a house and sold it off.

On approach of the boarded-up church, Tim nodded at the late-model dark truck parked outside the church.

“That the truck from Bowman’s animation, you think?” Raylan said.

“I’d have to hear it to be sure,” Tim said.

“Enough to take a closer look,” Raylan said.

“Planned on doing that anyway,” Tim said, putting the SUV in park and they both watched the church for a few minutes before getting out.

“True,” Raylan said. “Do we know who owns the church?”

“Art said this morning Rachel confirmed the county owned it,” Tim said.

“Let’s go knock.”

They wore their bullet-proof Marshals vests that morning, given the gunfire the night they’d raised Bowman. Boyd could have been firing at his daddy, or he could have been firing at them.  

When they reached the base of the steps, Boyd Crowder stood at the top.

“Well, if it isn’t my old friend Raylan Givens,” Boyd announced.

“Boyd,” Raylan said, nodding by way of greeting. “This is Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson. We need to chat with you about some gunfire two nights ago at the animation ritual of your brother Bowman Crowder.”

“Deputy,” Boyd said and nodded to Tim.

Tim stood a foot behind Raylan to the side, his hands resting on his hips, a breath’s distance from his service revolver.

“Boyd, do you happen to have the keys to that truck over there?” Raylan asked.

“Why no Raylan, I don’t believe I do. That truck there belongs to Devil. He’s gone to town with Dewey Crowe,” Boyd said.

“Devil?” Raylan asked.

“Friend of mine. Devil Lennox,” Boyd said.

“Gonna invite us in, Boyd?” Raylan asked.

“I don’t think I will, Raylan,” Boyd said. “Not feeling up to company this mornin’.”

“Tim, what was it Rachel said this morning? Boyd you remember Deputy Brooks, don’t you? Met that evening you had the Humans First meeting, I believe.”

“Fine looking black lady?” Boyd asked.

Raylan nodded, surprised Boyd didn’t use a different word to describe Rachel’s heritage.

“Sounds like her,” Tim said. “Thing is, Mr. Crowder, Deputy Brooks confirmed this property you’re squatting in is owned by the county. If we want to look around, we’ve got every right to.”

“Well, now, gentlemen, I don’t believe I ever said I was squatting here,” Boyd asked. “Don’t know who coulda spread such a vicious rumor.”

“What are you doing here then, Boyd?” Raylan asked.

“Just takin’ in an historic picturesque Harlan County place of worship,” Boyd said. “It’s a shame such lovely churches fall into ruin and disrepair.”

Raylan sighed and climbed the steps, meeting Boyd on the top step, grabbing him by the elbow. “C’mon Boyd, let’s go on up and we can take it in together,” Raylan said, guiding him up to the door. “You go on in first, Boyd. Just a thought to keep in mind: Tim here, he was a sniper in the Rangers. Got a fast trigger finger.”

“I hear you have that problem, too, Raylan,” Boyd said.

“Now Boyd, what gossip you been listening to?” Raylan said, pulling Boyd in front of him, turning the church’s doorknob, and giving the wooden door a shove.

“We get the news here in Kentucky. Even have the Internet some places,” Boyd said. “Saw that viral video of you killing that gangster vampire master on the YouTube.”

“Yeah. A Wal-Mart, vampire city masters, and the Internet. Harlan’s gone all modern on us,” Raylan said. He pushed Boyd through the door, his left hand on the man’s upper arm, his right at his hip by his weapon. “Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens, anyone home?” Raylan called out into the empty church.

Boyd sighed as if he were exasperated. “That’s what I been tryin’ to tell you Raylan,” Boyd said. “County’s gone to hell.”

“And your daddy have much to do with that?” Raylan asked.

“What do you think Raylan?” Boyd said.

“Looks clear Tim,” Raylan said.

Tim climbed the steps behind them and slipped through the door, his weapon out, clearing the aisles and places Raylan couldn’t see. When he got to the altar area, he stopped.

“Raylan, you need to come see this,” Tim said.

Raylan dragged Boyd up the aisle with him, stopping when he saw the desecrated altar. The floor was a pattern of symbols that covered the entire altar area. An altar was laid out at the top of the symbol with dead animals. Looked like run-of-the-mill rodents and what was probably a dead copperhead by the pattern and the general head shape. It was hard to tell since it was barely attached to the body.

“Symbols look like voodoo,” Tim said. He bent down and pinched a bit of the material. “What is this?”

“Probably cornmeal,” Raylan said. “Looks like the verve for Baron Samedi.”

“Who’s that?” Boyd asked.

“Like you don’t know,” Tim said.

“I don’t,” Boyd said.

“Samedi is the Loa of Dead. Can also be used in black magic,” Raylan said.

“Well, I’ll be,” Boyd said. “Shame someone desecrated such a lovely church.”

Tim shook his head. “See, Mr. Crowder, just yesterday we found one of your father’s mining company’s zombie employees had been contaminated with a Vaudun gris-gris. The result of this gris-gris was the death of the zombie employee’s foreman, which makes this a case of magical malfeasance. Do you know what the penalty for magical malfeasance is, Mr. Crowder?”

Boyd smiled one of this toothy smiles and steepled his fingers together in front of him. “Well, surely you gentlemen don’t think I’d have anything to do with such a grave miscarriage of justice, being a man of God and all?” Boyd said.

“’Fraid we do, Boyd,” Raylan said. “We’re gonna have to take you in, seeing as we found you here with this altar… that could be used to drawn enough power to make the gris-gris that zombie wore when he killed that foreman.”

Raylan cuffed Boyd and searched him for weapons under Tim’s watchful eye. Raylan shot Tim a sly, eye-squinting smirk at his attention to Raylan’s search. “We need to call in techs to process the scene. You want to call in the staties, Gutterson, since they had the scene at the mine? Need to call the county too, but I didn’t like how they evaded info on Bo Crowder.”

Tim made the calls, while Raylan put Boyd in wrist and ankle shackles and settled in for the wait. He didn’t have a secure backseat to stow his prisoner in, and Art would want Boyd processed through his house so that meant dragging Boyd back up with them to Lexington. Behind the backseat, the SUV contained their extermination kits on top of god knew how many weapons. Tim had a backup for his backup for his backup.

“Gutterson, your vehicle sucks for prisoner transpo. I told you we shoulda taken the town car.”


	10. Chapter 10

“You gave him a book,” Tim stated to Raylan, managing to work a thread of combined irritation, amusement, and possibly disgust into so few words. He was watching Boyd read from the passenger seat of the SUV.

“Was that or he’d talk the whole three hours to Lexington,” Raylan said. “You wouldn’t let me bring the town car, so we don’t have the option of putting him in the trunk when he won’t shut up.”

“Where’d you find him a book?”

“Church,” Raylan said.

“And he said he wasn’t squatting there,” Tim said, shaking his head. 

 

Raylan had left Boyd with his hands cuffed in front of him, but added a belly chain connected to leg irons. He put him in the front seat and sat behind Tim so he could watch Boyd like his chicken had watched Tim on the trip up. They could have waited for a transpo van from London or Lexington, but it’d already been hours getting the crime techs and other LEOs in to process the scene.

“What’re you reading?” Tim asked Boyd.

Boyd looked up from a battered paperback he held open with his thumbs, his fingers splayed on each cover. He let the book fall closed over one thumb to keep his place and showed Tim the cover. “ _Atlas Shrugged_ , you ever read it?”

“Mmm, no. My tastes tend to run toward sci fi, some fantasy,” Tim said.

“Asimov? Tolkien?” Boyd asked.

Raylan watched the dimple between Tim’s eyebrows deepen in the mirror. “More Tolkien. What’s that about?”

Boyd took a breath like he was going to break into some discussion, then said, “About a man who stops the world.”

Tim’s eyes found Raylan in the rearview mirror, the cowboy rolling his eyes. “It’s about every man for himself,” Raylan said. “Kinda fittin’ for you Boyd.”

“Now that’s not fair at all, Raylan, for two very good reasons,” Boyd said, shifting his body as best he could so he could look back at the marshal.

“And what might those reasons be Boyd?” Raylan asked, his tone indicating he already tired of the conversation.

“Well, one, we dug coal together. I recall a day when you wouldn’t of made it outta that Eastover mine if I’d been disposed to thinking of only myself.”

Raylan shrugged. “You looking for a thank-you after all these years?”

“Not at all,” Boyd said.

“What’s the other reason?” Tim asked. “You said ‘two very good reasons.’”

“Raylan wouldn’t let me bring the book I was halfway through,” Boyd said, settling back into his seat and opening his book.

“What was that?” Tim asked.

“ _Of Human Bondage_ ,” Boyd said.

Tim laughed, his eyes landing on Raylan again who was scowling.

“That’s not why. That book isn’t about…” Raylan waved his hand at Boyd “…criminals. It was a hardback. Probably had a file shoved into the cover.”

“I would never—” Boyd started.

“Not another word, Boyd. I’ll toss the book out the window if you keep up the chatter,” Raylan said.

Boyd gave Raylan an exaggerated nod and went back to his book.

***

After listening to Raylan and Boyd, Tim decided that Helen was right: Boyd Crower probably had been the one to teach Raylan how to talk to boys. He’d somehow imprinted snark and banter into Raylan’s courting rituals when it came to men. Unsure what to do with that, Tim pushed the thought away for the moment and turned up the music, shifting into a hyperaware mode in order to vigilantly monitor the road, the vehicles and terrain around them, and his silent passengers.

***

Back in the Lexington office, they booked Boyd’s arrest for magical malfeasance in connection with the death of the mining foreman and held him in custody awaiting out his attorney for questioning. Ironically, the leader of Harlan’s Humans First had a vampire for a lawyer. They had to wait out sunset to interrogate Boyd.

In the meantime, Rachel put Tim and Raylan on desk duty writing reports and filing travel and expense forms at the two desks closest to Art’s office, as if they couldn’t be trusted. Maybe they couldn’t. Raylan complained that he never filed expense reports the day he actually traveled, and Tim kept creeping off to the breakroom for more coffee or to the bathroom.

Rachel finally had enough. “I didn’t take you two to raise,” Rachel said. “Write your damned report Raylan, and Tim—I need you to return that rental tonight. We’ll get you a take-home vehicle in the morning. Ride with Raylan in the meantime.”

“Do I get one with lights and a siren?” Tim piped up. “And steel construction. And maybe one of those GPS cannons in the grille.”

Rachel sent him a look that said he’d take what he got.

“Or whatever you have. Maybe a forfeited SUV?” Tim asked hopefully.

When Boyd’s attorney, Monica Vespucci, finally showed up, she asked for some time with him. They snapped the blinds shut in the glass-walled conference room. Meanwhile in Art’s office, AUSA David Vasquez railed at Raylan and Tim for hauling Boyd in without stronger evidence. The connection between the verve and the gris-gris wasn’t solid. They had nothing other than Boyd might have been squatting in the church—which didn’t mean he made the verve. Raylan argued they had Bowman’s statement that Boyd had been taking his anger out on his father. Vasquez proved quickly that he nor Tim had had enough time with Bowman to flesh out his statements before he went mad—which in itself was enough to damage Bowman as a credible witness, even for a dead man. Art and Raylan pressed and Vasquez allowed they had enough to hold him for 72 hours before arraignment.

“The AUSA here is kinda an asshole,” Tim murmured to Raylan after they’d filed out of Art’s office.

“No kinda about it,” Raylan answered.

 ***

Boyd and Monica, a pale blonde, sat across the table from Raylan, Art, Tim, Rachel, and Vasquez in the conference room. Tim thought that blonds made the worst vampires as a rule. They were like little kids with blond hair that never got darker, instead the yellow just intensified. The lighter blondes weren’t so bad, but the canary-yellow blonds bothered him. The artifice was apparent. This wasn’t someone human. And Boyd’s lawyer was a canary-yellow blonde.

Art and Raylan both took runs at Boyd.

“Why do you hate Bo so much?” Raylan asked. “What are you hoping to prove trying to blow up his mining operations?”

“You really need me to answer that, Raylan?” Boyd countered.

Raylan pressed his lips together.

Art stepped in. “Mr. Crowder, what is the extent of your father’s business operations in Harlan? We heard he had a sire from Miami.”

Boyd started to answer, but his attorney reached out and grasped his arm. “Wait a minute Boyd. What are you getting at Chief?” Monica asked.

“Just trying to suss out what all Bo’s involved in so we can understand why Mr. Crowder here is so upset with him,” Art answered congenially.  

Monica leaned back in her chair. “If you’ve got a deal to make here, deputies, make it. Otherwise, stick to questions directly related with my client’s arrest.”

The questioning lingered on after that but they didn’t learn anything they didn’t already know.

In the end, Art decided they’d hold Boyd over for arraignment for 72 hours, which would at least hold him over the coming weekend.

“Hold up,” Art said to Raylan and Tim after Boyd was sent to holding and his lawyer left.

Tim was already to the doorway of the conference room, with Raylan on his heels.

“Tim, shut the door and have a seat,” Art said. “Rachel, what’re your thoughts?”

Raylan sank down in the chair Boyd had vacated, and Tim next to him.

“I’d say overall Crowder was smug,” she said.

“About any point in particular?” Art asked.

“Everything. He’s even amused—pleased somehow that we’re holding him,” Rachel added.

“He lying about that hoodoo bullshit at the church?” Art asked.

“Hm-mmm,” Rachel said, nodding. “He definitely knows something about it. About the gris-gris, too. Again, he’s amused by it.”

Tim was eyeing the room. Raylan was focused on Rachel, his expression growing darker the longer she talked. Art was hanging on every word she said.

“She’s a psychic… an empath,” Raylan stated flatly. He looked over at Art and raised his eyebrows. “You don’t think that’s something you should have let me in on before we went down to Harlan?”

“Or me?” Tim added, crossing his arms in front of him.

Art laughed and shrugged. “Raylan, since Glynco, I learned to keep a few cards closer to my chest when it comes to you. We’ll just call it chief’s prerogative. As for you, Tim, I don’t know you. That there’s reason enough.”

“Why’d you ask for me to be assigned here then?” Tim asked.

“Dan said if I teamed you up with Raylan, you’d clear up my vampire problem. And do a half-way decent job at containing Raylan,” Art said. “Worked with Raylan here long enough to know anyone who could wrangle him was worth a shot.”

“That’s just insulting,” Tim mumbled.

Raylan rolled his eyes at both of them. “I don’t get why I didn’t pick up on you, Rachel,” Raylan said.

“It’s not like I can sense vampires in the dark,” Rachel said slyly, then shrugged. “I just didn’t try you.”

“Because I would have felt it,” Raylan said, nodding then leaning forward. “But you tried Boyd the other day, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes,” Rachel said. “He was _very_ glad to see you.”

“Pardon me?” Raylan said.

Tim coughed.

“He was downright happy you were there—that was genuine,” Rachel explained, then paused and turned to look at Tim. “Unlike Tim here—you really don’t like Boyd, do you Tim?”

Tim scowled, and Raylan watched the blank mask fall down over Tim’s features. Since their Harlan trip, Tim had been more open than Raylan had ever seen him. Raylan felt a little perturbed that Rachel was curtailing that.

Rachel was still watching Tim, but in turn, the closer Tim’s face got to blank, the more disturbed and serious Rachel seemed.  

“How did you do that?” Rachel asked Tim.

Tim’s lips quirked once. “Do what?” he replied.

“Owl’s coming any day now, Timmy,” Raylan whispered out of the side of his mouth to Tim, impressed. “Nice psychic shielding.”

Rachel’s eyes tracked between them, then she held her hands out in supplication to Tim. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said.

Tim gave her a short forgiving nod, and she turned back to Raylan. “Boyd was happy you were there, but there was a deceptive edge to it.”

“Well, that’s actually kind of handy,” Raylan said, shooting Art an approving glance. “When we got the call about the mine blowing up, how did he feel to you?”

“He wasn’t surprised. Not deceptive, but still very pleased,” Rachel said, pausing. “I’d call it satisfied.”

“What we’d like to know is if he’s happy that you’re here because your reputation means bad things for his father and good things for his little feud,” Art said. “Or if he’s into something bigger,”

***

It was nearly nine o’clock by the time Raylan followed Tim into the rental lot to drop off his SUV and even later by the time they’d shifted all Tim’s luggage and weaponry into the town car’s truck. Tim climbed in, Raylan driving for the first time since Tim’d arrived in Kentucky. Raylan headed in the direction of his motel.

“You know where you’re staying?” Raylan asked.

He was met with silence.

Raylan snuck glances at Tim. “I mean… did you have reservations somewhere?”

“No,” Tim said, pulling his phone out to tap on it. “I’ll find someplace now.”

“Tim.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t saying you couldn’t stay with me,” Raylan said. “I just—”

“Raylan, it’s fine. I’ll find a place tonight and then use GSA to find long-term—”

“I don’t want you to do that,” Raylan said. “Jesus Christ, I’m bad at this.”

“You really are,” Tim said.

“I wanted you to say you want to stay with me,” Raylan said, like Tim had dragged it from him.

“All right.”

“It’s a real shit hole,” Raylan said.

Tim’s laugh was a short bark. “You’re really selling it there, Ray.”

“Huh,” Raylan said, then nothing more.

“What?”

“I kinda like you calling me that.”

***

Raylan wanted to pick up fried chicken to take back to the room with them. Tim pushed for barbeque, instead, thinking there’d be non-chicken options.

“I’m off chicken at the moment,” Tim explained.

Raylan nodded. “Yeah, I spent the year between fourteen and fifteen like that. Missed fried chicken too much not to go back.”

***

Tim paused on the precipice between room number eight and the small porch just outside the door as if he was crossing a line he couldn’t come back from.

He stepped into Raylan’s motel room, his eyes automatically sweeping left to right cataloging any dangers.

“You weren’t kidding,” Tim said. “Does the bed have magic fingers at least?”

Raylan put the food down on the table and frowned. “Sorry. You’ll have to settle for mine, I guess.” He held up his hands, wiggling his fingers.

Tim dropped his executioner bag on the floor and went over press against Raylan’s back, sliding his arms around him, and stretching up on his tiptoes to rest his chin on Raylan’s shoulder. “Hey, I’m fucking with you.”

“Okay.”

“I want to stay with you, even in this shit-hole room,” Tim offered.

Raylan huffed something that was almost a laugh, but his body released some of the tension holding it.  “Want to grab a couple of beers from the fridge? It’s over by the bathroom.”

“Sure,” Tim said. He fell away and came back with the bottles, dropped them on the table. “I need to haul in the rest of my crap from the car. I’ve got a travel gun safe back there. What’s the neighborhood like? Do I leave it in the car or bring it in for the night?”

“In probably,” Raylan said.

They hauled the bulk of Tim’s stuff into Raylan’s room, shoving it into the floor of the closet and sat down at the table to eat take-out barbeque from Styrofoam containers with their beer.

“I’m going to get a shower,” Tim said.

Raylan smiled. Tim in the shower meant Tim in shorts after the shower. It was a pattern he’d come to appreciate.

“Pervert.” Tim grabbed his dopp kit and headed into the bathroom.

He came out of the bathroom with a wave of steam, a burnt-orange towel wrapped around his waist.

Raylan was still sitting at the table, now with a newspaper in front of him, but his eyes were on Tim. “I might like the towel as much as the shorts.”

Tim laughed at him. “No you don’t, you’re just distracted by all my pale white skin.”

From the set of his jaw and the turn of his mouth, Raylan was getting ready to come back at Tim when there was a banging on the door.

“Raylan! Raylan, it’s Winona, open up!”  The knocking grew sharper.

“Shit,” Raylan said. “I’ll just slip out and find out what she wants.” His eyes lingered on Tim with regret. “Might want to put something on.”

Raylan opened the door a crack and wedged his way out. He pulled it to, and stood in front of it. “Evening Winona. What’s up?”

“Who you got in there Raylan?”

“Company Winona. Not that it’s any of your business,” Raylan said.

“Oh a girlfriend?” Winona smiled. When Raylan didn’t respond, her face fell more serious. “Ooooh, boyfriend, then.”

“A friend,” Raylan said, giving her a pointed look. “What’s up Winona?”

“Um… Raylan.  I need your help. Gary, he’s into something bad,” Winona said.

“You said as much… the other night,” Raylan responded. Had it only been the other night when she’d been in his bed. He felt like a whole season had passed. “Did something change?”

“Did something change? Shit Raylan. I came home and they’ve got Gary locked in a coffin in my living room. There was some asshole there saying if I didn’t pay him the money Gary owed for turning him they’d…”

“Wait a minute. Just back up a sec. Gary paid to become a vampire?” Raylan asked.

“Apparently, and now he’s behind on his payments. “

“Aw hell,” Raylan said. He pushed the door behind him open and stuck his head inside. “You decent?”

“No,” Tim replied.

Raylan shrugged at Winona, who just raised her eyebrows. Her expression plainly said “told-you-so.”

“Too bad, Winona’s coming in, I think you need to hear this too,” Raylan said, coming into the room taking a seat on the side of the bed next to Tim.

“Oh, all right,” Tim said, but Raylan saw Tim’s doubt in the how the cleft between his brows looked more prominent, especially with the way he was narrowing his eyes. Tim was sitting on the bed in his bare feet wearing black jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt shoved up to his elbows. He had one leg splayed open with his foot tucked up against the other in a half cross-legged position. His other foot on the floor, his big toe tapping out a pattern on the floor.

“Did you hear what we were talking about?” Raylan asked.

“Not all of it,” Tim confirmed.

“This is Winona, my ex. Winona, Tim Gutterson, a fellow marshal and… friend?” Raylan said.

Tim pursed his lips a little and Raylan wondered what emotion he was swallowing. Regardless, he nodded. “Hey Winona. Like Raylan, I’m a legal vampire executioner. My job is to deal with preternatural crime,” he said. Tim stretched his hand out.

Winona stepped forward and shook his hand.

“Have a seat Winona.” Raylan motioned to the chairs at the table. “Want a beer?”

She sat down and crossed her legs, settling her bag on the table. “Sure.”

Raylan went after her beer, handed it off, and sat back down close enough to Tim that his knees could brush the side of Raylan’s thigh.

“So, I hear your husband is a vampire and having some problems?” Tim started.

“Yes. Gary… about three years ago, he decided to become a vampire. Thought that it would change his whole life,” she explained. “See, when he was human, he was a realtor. But that’s not an easy business for a vampire to keep up. People like to buy houses they can look at in the light of day.”

Tim nodded. “What happened today?”

“I came home and there was a man in our house. He said Gary was locked in his coffin,” Winona said, pulling her phone out, tapping and swiping into it. “It had chains and crosses around it.”  She handed the phone over to Tim.

“Cross-wrapped coffin. Brutal,” Tim said. He held the phone out for Raylan to see.

Raylan leaned over to look at the image, and wrapped his hand around Tim’s bare ankle. It looked so delicate and bare…. touching him that way seemed intimate. He wanted to stroke his thumb along the arch of his foot too, but held back. He suddenly really wanted to know if Tim was ticklish…. far more than he wanted to rush to Winona’s new husband’s rescue.

“When did you last see Gary Winona?” Raylan asked.

“Two nights ago,” she said.

Tim nodded at Raylan. “That’s good, Winona, it’s not been long,” Tim assured her. “What did the man at your house tell you?”

“He wanted thirty grand,” she said. “He said Gary owed his boss the money for turning him and until we paid him, Gary would remain locked up. He said he was going to leave him in our living room as a reminder—and that I’d better not get any ideas about letting him out. Said Gary would be rabid.”

Raylan nodded. “Odds are he’s not been in there long enough to be mad or completely incapacitated,” Raylan said. “Winona, this is important—the man you talked to, was he human or vampire?”

“Human, I think,” she said.

“Did your cross light up?” Raylan asked. He’d given her a blessed silver cross during their marriage, had educated her on how to avoid the gaze of a vampire.

Winona rolled her eyes. “Do you see me wearing it?”

Raylan shook his head. “Why not? How many times have I—”

“I’m married to a vampire Raylan. I can’t very well wear a cross around Gary,” she said.

“All right,” Raylan said, his tone more soothing. “You sure he was human. You don’t think he was vampire and rolled you?”

Winona sighed. “No,” Winona said. “What am I going to do?”

Tim and Raylan started to talk at the same time. “Go to—”

“It’s illeg—” Tim stopped and waved Raylan on. Raylan squeezed his ankle. Winona’s eyes caught the gesture, but her eyes flashed right back up to Raylan’s face.

“The thing is Winona,” Tim began, “What Gary’s sire is doing by demanding payment for turning him is extortion and illegal. There was a court case about five years back, Dipiero vs. Ruzzito, in which the high court found it wasn’t legal to charge for turning a human into a vampire. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “I’m a court reporter, Deputy, I’m familiar with precedent.”

Tim shrugged. “All right. You can call me Tim, if you want.” He gave her a small smile.

She half-smiled back at him. Raylan felt oddly surprised at how satisfying it was to have any kindness from her directly toward Tim.

Raylan shook his head to get himself mentally back on point. “Further,” Raylan added, “Vampires have the same rights as humans, which means restraining Gary against his will in a cross-wrapped coffin amounts to kidnapping and false imprisonment.”

Winona sighed.

“Winona, what I told you the other night… it holds. We need to call Art in on this,” Raylan said. “The crimes you’re describing, when Tim and I look into them, it’s going to rattle some cages.”

“Because the vampires call you Executioner?” she asked, resignation in her voice. She’d always hated that her husband had been the boogeyman’s boogeyman.

“And they call him Death,” Raylan said.

Winona laughed. “He’s perfect for you,” she said, shaking her head.

Tim looked confused, but Raylan shrugged. He rubbed the pads of fingers against the soft skin of Tim’s ankle, and rubbed his foot with his thumb.

“Winona, Art’s going to want to talk to you about protective custody. You need to be prepared for that,” Raylan said. “And you need to know if you want to remain with Gary or not.”

“Jesus Raylan,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

“My advice is get out and stay out, Winona,” Raylan said. “Leave him unless you want to join him.”

Tim rested his hand on Raylan’s, looking down at their hands, then up at Raylan. Raylan thought it was Tim’s way of giving Winona a moment. Raylan rewarded him with a short nod of approval.

Tim cleared his throat. “Any idea of who you’re supposed to be paying this money to, Winona?” Tim asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said, stopping to dig around in her bag.

She handed Tim a card for a Wynn Duffy.


	11. Chapter 11

When Raylan pulled up in front of the Hawkins’ house with Tim and Winona in the town car with him, Art and Rachel were already standing on the porch. Due to laws pertaining to securing vampire executioner weaponry, they’d had to load Tim’s weapons and executioners’ kits back into the trunk, then Raylan insisted they stop off at the hospital blood bank to procure two bags of whole blood without a preservative added. The staff hadn’t wanted to hand it over, but Tim and Raylan pressed the issue. Tim with his badge and some strong words, and Raylan with flirtatious cajoling. Tim left unsure if he was impressed, resentful, or jealous.

“Raylan. Tim,” Art greeted them with a nod. He stepped forward and squeezed Winona’s arm. “Winona, how are you holding up?”

She smiled at Art. “Given the circumstances….”

“Have you met Deputy Rachel Brooks yet Winona?” he asked, gesturing to Rachel who took a step closer.

Winona offered her hand. “Not yet, though I think I’ve seen you around the court house. I’m sorry to drag both of you out so late.”

Rachel took her Winona’s hand in both of hers, giving her a long look. “Sorry we’re finally meeting under these circumstances,” Rachel said, then released her hand. “Are you okay?”

Tim thought he picked up something in Rachel’s voice that said the empath already knew Winona was far from all right.

Raylan’s ex folded her arms around her middle and shrugged. “Just scared,” she said. “And angry at Gary.”

Rachel nodded.

“Winona,” Raylan said, “Can I get your keys?”

She handed them to his by the front door key. “There’s an alarm code,” she added.

“What is that Winona?” Art asked. “Raylan and Tim will go in first to make sure it’s clear. I’ll turn the system off while you can stay out here with Rachel. Then you and Rachel are going to go and pack a bag. You’ll be staying in a safe house for the moment.”

Winona nodded.

***

The marshals found Gary’s coffin upright leaning against a mantle in the front living room. Tim figured the message was clear to anyone coming or going—there was no missing it: pay up soon; this vampire isn’t getting any saner. Art took one look at it and called in a crime tech. While Rachel was upstairs helping Winona pack, Raylan and Tim started getting a feel for how they wanted to open it while Raylan complained about having to wait for a forensic unit to arrive.

“Looks like silver. Chain rules out lycanthrope involvement, though the crosses don’t,” Tim said, examining the thick chain wrapped around the coffin with crosses shoved down into the links. Tim ran a hand over the high gloss finish.

“Gutterson, don’t touch it,” Art complained.

“Is this cherry?” Tim asked, ignoring the chief, just as the Winona came down the stairs into the living room.

“Gary would probably like you to think that,” Winona said. “Poplar. Delivery from Wal-Mart.”

Raylan’s eyebrows shot up, but Art chuckled. “There’s nothing they won’t sell,” Art said.

Raylan pressed his lips together like he was weighing a heavy thought. “Maybe that’s why Harlan has a Wal-Mart after all these years,” Raylan said.

“Who buys a casket from Wal-Mart?” Rachel asked.

Tim and Winona answered together. “Newly dead,” Tim said, but not loud enough to cover Winona chiming in with, “Gary.”

Tim turned to his executioner’s kit and started digging around in his bag coming up with bolt cutters. He typically used them as rib cutters when he needed to take a vampire heart, but they came in handy for their original purpose now and then.

"Rachel, why don’t you and Winona get on out of here?” Raylan said.

Rachel eyed Tim and agreed.

“Now, don’t get too crazy yet,” Art said. “I want to get a tech to process the scene before you two tear it up.”

“Art, the longer Gary’s in there, the more likely he’ll go feral,” Raylan said. “The guy wasn’t all that stable when he was human.”

“Not biased at all, are ya?” Art said.

“He was a dick who slept with my wife,” Raylan said, shrugging. “Still, would we leave a human locked in a crate because we wanted to wait to dust it for prints? Once he’s feral, he’ll only be concerned with feeding, and we’ll have to put him down. No going back.”

“I’ll just snip the chains and the tech can have at it,” Tim assured Art. “Got an evidence bag?”

They looked at each other blankly, then Raylan headed deeper into the house. 

“At least take a picture of it,” Art said.  

Tim was shooting various angles with his phone when Raylan came back with a handful of empty grocery bags.

Raylan handed one to Tim who used it to pull the crosses out of the chains, which he dropped into another bag Raylan was holding open. When he was ready with the bolt cutters, he turned to Raylan. “You got that blood handy?”

Raylan pulled one bag of blood from the inside, hidden pocket of his faded jean jacket like it was a half-pint of Jim Beam.

Art grimaced at him, and Raylan shrugged. “Body heat warms it up. He’ll take to it better,” Raylan said.

Tim handed Art a gun. “Special bullets—silver casings with liquid silver-nitrate-filled tips,” Tim said. “If he goes apeshit, on the off chance Raylan and I lose control, aim for his head, then his heart.”

Art took the gun with a gruff nod, but to Tim it looked a bit like the chief was enjoying this more than he was willing to let on.

“Ready?” Tim asked.

“Go head,” Raylan said.

To humans and human tools, silver chain was notoriously soft. Tim snipped the chain in various places around only the top door of the casket, letting the metal links fall to the floor. He thought if he left the bottom door chained, maybe Raylan would have more time to calm Gary down.

“Gonna open the top first,” Tim said.

Raylan nodded and positioned himself to the left of the casket with Tim in front. Raylan flicked the opening clasp, and Tim pulled the top door open.

A pale man Tim assumed was Gary Hawkins blinked in the lamplight of his living room. “Ray... Raylan? What are you going here?” Gary said.

“Take this Gary.” Raylan handed him the bag of blood.

“Oh, no thanks. I don’t drink bagged—”

“Drink it,” Raylan ordered.

“All right,” Gary acquiesced. He gingerly took the bag and delicately sank his top fangs into the plastic, puncturing it. He winced as the blood spurted into his mouth, coloring his lips a dark red contrasting against the pallor of his skin. The blood might be whole but it wasn’t fresh. Tim knew fresh blood was a hell of a lot brighter than the darker red color of the blood creeping down Gary’s chin from the corner of his mouth.

The vampire finished the bag and handed the empty bag back to Raylan, who pulled the other bag out of the other side of his jacket and handed it to Gary. “Here, you missed at least two feedings,” Raylan said.

He took the bag. “Thanks,” Gary said, suspicious. “Why are you here?” He sank his teeth down into this bag with more force and made much quicker work of it. Tim was glad Raylan thought to insist on two because Tim knew he wouldn’t have bothered with the second.

After Gary handed Raylan the second empty blood bag, the vampire’s pallor had improved. His skin looked more pink and less dusty gray.

“Gary, I need you to understand that I’m here on marshal business,” Raylan started.

Then, Gary freaked out. “No. No. No,” the vampire wailed. “I didn’t break any laws. You’re not allowed to kill me.” Gary ducked down and tried to hide himself in the bottom of the casket behind the lower door. Tim knew he’d fail. People thought caskets were one big empty box, but that was a misconception. Most caskets built for burial, as Gary’s discount Wal-Mart number had been, had leg supports at the bottom. The body fluids of the dead didn’t circulate.

“Gary, I’m not—”

“This is because of Winona. Oh my god Raylan, I know you slept with her this week.” Gary screamed. “I could _smell_ you on her.”

Tim wanted to keep his attention on the questionable vampire in the room, but his eyes crept over to Raylan at least once to gauge his reaction, which to Tim, seemed guilty by the cowboy’s wince and the tilt of his head, allowing his hat brim to hide his eyes from Tim.

“You might be the Executioner Raylan, but you can’t just kill me because you want my wife,” Gary yelled.

“Whoa, I don’t want—” Raylan started.

Tim held up his badge, interrupting. “Mr. Hawkins, I’m Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson, we’re here—”

If Gary reacted poorly to Raylan, he thrashed when he saw Tim and began to try to climb out of the casket from the open door. “You’re the one they call Death. Jesus Raylan, who did you bring to my door?” Gary turned to look at Raylan plaintively.

Tim rolled his eyes, and then waved a hand at Raylan—a silent gesture, go ahead and reason with the asshole. Gary had begun to scream for help.

“Gary, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to lock you back in your coffin,” Raylan gritted out.

“Mr. Hawkins?” Art tried yelling over Gary’s bellowing, holding up a badge. “We’re not here to execute you.”

Gary stopped and jerked his gaze to Art, noticing him for the first time. “You’re not?”

“No, Mr. Hawkins. Do you think you can get yourself under control enough for us to let you out of your coffin? Not gonna attack anyone for food?”

The vampire nodded to Art, then darted quick looks at Tim and Raylan.

“All right, Mr. Hawkins,” Art said. “I’m Chief Deputy Mullen and we’re here because we got a report that you’ve been held against your will and are being extorted by your sire.”

Gary jerked again looking between Raylan and Tim. “They’re not here to kill me?” he asked.

Art sighed. “No Mr. Hawkins. They’re actually here to save you,” Art said. “Tim, can you cut the chains around the bottom and let Mr. Hawkins out?”

“Will do,” Tim said, reaching for his bolt cutters and going to work.

Gary stepped out into the living room. “Where’s Winona?” he asked.

“Mrs. Hawkins is somewhere safe,” Art said. “She was approached by a man demanding money for turning you into a vampire, stating that you would be confined without…,” Art looked for a word, clearly unused to working with the dead, “…food, until your account was paid in full. Do you know who locked you in your casket, Mr. Hawkins?”

Gary stepped free and his eyes darted around the room. Tim was always astounded at some of the newly dead. Some people were smarmy in life but took to turning vamp and ended up as half-way decent people once they were among the undead. Gary didn’t seem like he was among that category. Tim couldn’t say why, but Gary had a desperate, frantic edge to him that didn’t all seem to be based in the anxiety born from over waking up to find the Executioner and Death leaning over his coffin.

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gary said. “I went to sleep one morning and woke up last night locked in my casket.”

Raylan sighed. “Gary, do you owe a man named Wynn Duffy money for turning you?”

Gary’s eyes slid over to Raylan and then back to Tim, with a look that seemed _calculating_ , if Tim had to name it. He kind of wished Rachel had hung around. Then, he wondered if her empathic powers even worked on the dead.

“Why? What are you going to do if I do?” Gary asked.

“Well, Tim and I will have to go have a little talk with Mr. Duffy,” Raylan said.

Gary brightened a moment, then seemed to think about that for a moment because he didn’t reply at first. “Maybe you should put me back,” Gary said.

Art sighed. “We’re with the Marshal Service Mr. Hawkins. The good guys. You’ve broken no laws, so we can’t just put you back into a position where you’re being held against your will.”

“I’m willing,” Gary said.  

“So what you’re saying, Gary, is that you’re more afraid of Duffy than you are me or Tim?” Raylan asked. “Even though he’s Death and I’m the Executioner?”

Gary’s eyes circled the marshals once more and he nodded sharply. “Exactly.”

Tim snorted. “Well, _now_ , I have to meet this guy.”

Raylan swallowed a smile, moving closer to Tim while Art pulled Gary a bit further away from his marshal boogeymen, then started to explain to Gary how Winona’s life was threatened in a series of events that were part of a preternatural crime and she now was under his protection.

“What are you laughing at cowboy?” Tim asked, his voice low watching Art placate Gary.

Raylan shook his head.

“Two words for you: dog house,” Tim whispered.

Raylan had the grace to look sheepish and rub his hand over his face. “I can explain that.”

“I’ll bet,” Tim replied, rolling his eyes.

“Therefore, Mr. Hawkins, we’re duty bound to look into this crime, meaning we will need to question Mr. Duffy.”

Raylan pulled the card Winona had given him from the left-breast pocket of his jean jacket. “Where’s your cell phone Gary? We need you to call Duffy and set up a meeting.”

Gary pulled his phone out of the pocket of his dress pants and handed it to Raylan.

“Gary, if you had your cell phone while you were locked in the casket, how come you didn’t call someone to let you out?” Raylan asked as if he were talking to someone either very young, very old, or very stupid.

“Who would I call, Raylan?” Gary said, sounding miserable.

Tim idly nodded. Gary was blood oathed to his sire most likely, or someone higher up the food chain. If he was in debt to his sire, then he had no options there. He could have called 911, but LEOs responded differently dependent on how well they understood preternatural crime—especially how they might respond to a constrained vampire who could well have been feral. Had he and Raylan not been on-hand, some LEOs might have hauled Gary’s casket out and set fire to it—in the name of public safety. Given that Gary’s wife was human and obviously unhappy with his recent life, or rather death, choices, and had been threatened. She’d be unlikely to raise a fuss or sue, so setting fire to him would have been a completely viable option.

Gary actually got lucky the two men with the most vampire executions under their belts were the ones to pry open his coffin.

***

Raylan and Tim parked off on the car side of the Eastbound rest area off Interstate 64 while Tim used his rifle scope to read the plates on Wynn Duffy’s RV parked in the Westbound rest area other side of the highway.

“Think this is far enough away?” Tim asked.

Raylan squinted as he thought about it. “Think so,” he said. “Gary, can you hear anything from Duffy’s RV?”

“Should I be able to hear that far?” Gary asked.

Raylan rolled his eyes. “Why’d you become a vampire if you’re not going to take advantage of the perks?” Raylan asked.

“I thought…,” Gary started, “well, I thought it’d be different.”

Raylan shook his head. “Concentrate and see if you can hear them,” Raylan said.

“I can’t hear anything past the road noise,” Gary said.

“Maybe there’s a reason Duffy holds important meetings on the side of the road,” Raylan muttered. “But what’s Duffy doing all the way over by Frankfort?” It’d taken them almost forty-five minutes to get there.

“Got me,” Tim said, calling in the plates. He was writing notes down in a small notepad he tended to keep shoved in some pocket of his pants and saying, “Uh-huh, uh-huh” now and then into his cell phone.

“Gary?” Raylan “Any ideas?”

“I know he meets with vampires from Frankfort,” Gary said.

“Know any names?” Raylan said.

“A guy named Emmitt,” Gary said. “He’s the one who turned me.”

“Wait a minute,” Raylan turned in his seat, his arm stretching out across to the back of Tim’s seat and so he could look Gary in the face. “I thought Duffy was your sire.”

“No, Emmitt Arnett,” Gary said. “Duffy is my contact if I need anything from the vampire world.”

“And who you pay?” Raylan asked.

“I don’t think I should say,” Gary said.

Tim pressed end on his call. “All right. A 2004 Alfa 40-foot double slide out RV is registered to a Wynn Duffy. Interestingly, no insurance according to the DMV database—which could be useful.”

“Nice,” Raylan said. “Any priors?”

Tim took a deep breath and sighed. “Sadly no.”

***

Raylan parked his town car directly in the path of Duffy’s RV, perpendicular to the front bumper of the vehicle. Duffy could back up, but trying it in an RV with the semis around would be unwieldy. He likely wasn’t going anywhere without barreling through Raylan’s car.

Raylan tugged Gary along and they pounded on the door to the RV.

A big guy answered who looked a lot like the description Winona had given him—a big meaty guy with a buzz cut. Winona called him “guido-looking” while Rachel frowned over his ex-wife’s use of the slur. “What do you want?” the guy intoned.

Raylan help up his badge and shield. “Looking for a Wynn Duffy, he around?” Raylan said.

“Who’s askin’?” The guy looked at Raylan, then Tim and his eyes narrowed at Gary.

“Deputy Raylan Givens from the Preternatural Branch of the US Marshals Service,” Raylan said.

He heard a curse from inside the RV. “Mikey, let him in.”

Mike stepped back, and Raylan climbed the steps into the Alfa. Tim followed pulling Gary along behind him.

“No holy items.” Mike put up a hand to Raylan when he stepped back into the RV.

“It’s all right, Mikey,” the pale blond said.

“You Wynn Duffy?” Raylan said to the main lounging on a pristine white leather couch.

“You found me officer,” Duffy said, then he caught Tim and Gary behind Raylan.

“Well, Gary, what a surprise, who’ve you brought to my doorstep this evening?” Duffy said, his voice falsely cordial.

Gary started to speak. “Wynn, I swear—”

“Gary,” Raylan said with caution in his voice, “I think Tim and I can take care of this.”

Gary shut down, looking miserable.

“See, Mr. Duffy, we got a complaint that a man matching your friend Mike here—” Raylan gestured to Mike “—I didn’t catch your last name Mike. What was that?”

“Cosmatopolis,” Mike supplied. 

Raylan nodded. “The complaint was that Mr. Cosmatopolis strapped Gary here into a casket, then demanded a certain amount of money for turning Gary here into a vampire.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Duffy said.

“See the problem is that Mr. Cosma… Mike gave Gary’s wife a card, saying if she wanted her husband back before he turned feral, she needed to bring you a payment of thirty thousand dollars,” Raylan said.

“Mr. Raylan, I don’t see how that’s…,” Duffy started.

“Deputy Givens, actually. Deputy US Marshal Givens and this is my partner Deputy Tim Gutterson,” Raylan said evenly, raising his eyebrows.

Duffy looked between Raylan and Tim, then he seemed to understand. “Gaaary, you brought the Executioner and Death to my place of business? What are you trying to accomplish with this?” Duffy said.

“See Mr. Duffy, that’s where you’re wrong. Gary wasn’t the one who brought us here, his kidnapping and the subsequent threat to his human wife did. Abduction and kidnapping in the state of Kentucky when the victim is released alive is a Class B felony punishable by ten to twenty years in prison,” Raylan said. “But when that offender or the victim is a preternatural creature—that kind of sentence turns into an automatic death sentence.”

No one said anything for a moment, the only sound in the Alfa was the road noise and an occasional door slam outside from the other travelers stopping at the rest area.

Duffy nodded, then finally spoke. “All right.”

Raylan and Tim looked at each other.

“Further, asking or forcing a human turning vampire to pay for that transition amounts to extortion and when that amount is more than ten thousand dollars a class C felony. Vampires proven guilty of felonies are served with execution warrants. Period,” Raylan said.

“I’m confused,” Duffy said.

“About what?” Tim asked.

“If you were here to execute me, you’d already have your warrant, right?” Duffy said. “What did you want?”

Raylan nodded. “Very good. I don’t think he’s confused at all, do you Tim?”

“Nope.”

“We understand that you’re not Gary’s sire,” Raylan said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, if Gary here is victim of extortion, then there are probably other newly dead in the Lexington area with that little problem,” Raylan said. “We want Emmitt Arnet.”


	12. Chapter 12

Back at the court house, Raylan and Tim stood in from of the chief’s desk withstanding a torrent of Art’s frustration. Rachel sat instead in one of the chairs self-composed, letting the ire sweep past her.

Gary, Mike, and their attorney—ironically the same woman who represented Boyd—were stashed in the conference room. Gary was cooling his jets in holding. Rachel brought Winona into the court house to let her wait out a judge in her own office with a junior deputy marshal while she met with the chief—they might deal with Duffy, but they were going to treat Winona like a protected witness.

“How did you two fuck this up? I sent you after Duffy for kidnapping and false imprisonment. We had to cut Hawkins out of that casket. Kidnapping doesn’t get much more clear cut than that.”

“Now Art, we didn’t screw it up,” Raylan said. “Gary didn’t tell us until we got there that Duffy wasn’t his sire. The guy is just a middleman, the muscle. We charge him for this and he’ll walk, and Gary’s sire will still be charging the good people of Lexington to turn them into vampires. Be different if he’d killed Gary or threatened Winona with physical harm as a vampire. What we’ve got on Duffy just isn’t an executionable offense. You can’t jail a vampire—they don’t stay put. Unless they want to. And I don’t see that in Duffy.”

Art nodded his head in a way that turned into shaking it. “And now you want me to wake up Judge Reardon or pull him away from his favorite titty bar on a Friday night to issue you an execution warrant on... this guy… who was it? Arnet? Never heard of him.”

“Art,” Rachel said, speaking up for the first time. “We did a run on Arnet. FBI has a file on him—he’s a midlevel player in the Dixie Mafia. His front looks like a lot of the legit business vampires; he’s into development instead of the tourist and entertainment trades. But locally, in the Frankfort and Lexington area, word out is he’s the head of the Dixie Mafia snake.”

“All right, all right,” Art said. “What’s to stop the FBI from wading in and taking over once we petition Reardon?”

“Preternatural crime,” Tim said. “That’s our wheelhouse. Vampire trumps mafia.”

Art nodded. “All right then,” he said. “I’ll make the call.”

***

To the casual observer, Judge Mike Reardon, nor AUSA Vasquez, acted all that happy to spend their Friday night at the Federal Court house, grousing and complaining about the hours.

But Reardon called Raylan and Tim into his chambers before court. “Between us, I liked it better before we had to hold court at all hours of night.”

Tim frowned.

“I’m not anti-vampire, mind you—just not a fan of their hours. Conflicts with my extracurricular activities if you know what I mean,” Reardon said, then dropped his pants. Tim contained his reaction, but his eyes grew round, then shot away from the man’s red Speedo across the room to rest on Raylan.

Unconsciously, the judge donned his robe while talking. “So they call you two the Executioner and Death, I heard,” Reardon said. “It’s all over the court house that the chief has you both working out of his house.”

“Thank you?” Raylan said, unsure of what response the judge wanted. Or why he wanted them in chambers with him.

Reardon, zipping his robe, came to his point. “Off the record, how many vampires you killed?” the judge asked.

Tim gave Raylan a briefly incredulous look. “I’ve served fifty-three execution warrants,” Raylan said. It was the safe, legal answer.

Reardon shook his head. “But how many have you killed? Those vampires in that nest you and Gutterson fried in Miami a month ago weren’t on any warrant.”

Raylan nodded. “My mama taught be it was impolite to brag,” he said.

“Deputy Gutterson, what did your mama teach you?” Reardon asked.

“When to duck and when to run,” Tim murmured. Raylan scowled; Tim never talked about his past.

“Honestly Judge, I can’t say. Fair number were in the service and are classified,” Tim said.

“Ohhh, that’s right. You were with the government,” Reardon said, leveling a weighted stare in Tim’s direction.

Raylan wondered why Tim seemed bothered by Reardon’s poking.

The judge clapped several times. “All right gentlemen, let’s get this show on the road,” Reardon said, moving toward the door. “Just wanted to make sure you boys were up to the task if I sign off on some bad little vampire’s death warrant.”

***

A few hours later, Raylan had an execution warranted issued to him for one Emmitt Arnet. He and Tim decided since Tim had been called in as backup, that Raylan would take lead on the warrant. Winona testified in chambers—the Marshal Service unwilling to put her in the path of Wynn Duffy in open court. Gary and Duffy both testified that Emmitt was extorting a hundred grand from Gary for turning him. But Gary was hesitant to admit he was a victim of kidnapping and false imprisonment—Raylan racked that up as his ego and greed: if he got out from under the extortion, he wouldn’t have to pay Arnet. But admitting he was taken and held while sleeping was a whole other matter. 

Gary’s refusal to testify on the kidnapping had no bearing on the case. With the marshals’ eye-witness testimony, Tim’s pictures and the physical evidence, they didn’t need Gary to confirm it. Mike was a problem. Raylan suspected he was Duffy’s human servant by the way Duffy kept the large man so close—and that Duffy clearly wanted Mike to testify but the human simply wouldn’t, as his continued freedom was contingent on the deal that he testify against his boss, Arnet. As Duffy’s human servant, Mike would lend Duffy power by touch and proximity. He also had free will.

Rachel sat between Tim and Raylan in the public gallery. It hadn’t escaped Raylan’s notice that Tim had been pulling away from him since the scene in Winona’s living room. He expected when they finally caught their breaths, he’d have a fight on his hands.

“Don’t you think this seems a little one-sided?” Rachel whispered.

“What do you mean?” Raylan asked, voice low.

“No one is here to represent Arnet,” she said. “We’re deciding this person’s death without his day in court.”

“This your first preternatural execution warrant case?” he whispered.

She nodded.

“At least they’re putting a name on the warrant. Sometimes we get them for ‘vampire who killed so and so’,” Tim whispered. “Then it’s up to the executioner to decide in the field who’s guilty and who’s innocent.”

***

They didn’t leave the court house until nearly 6 am. And Raylan never got the fight he'd been expecting with Tim. Rachel handed Tim the keys to a marshal service SUV with the requested flashing lights. Tim followed Raylan back to the motel, but stopped by the office to pick up a key to what turned out to be room number nine.

“I’m here to back you up, so I’m not going far,” Tim said. “But I want eight hours to myself that I don’t have to look at your face and think of you fucking your ex-wife.”

“Tim, I didn’t—”

He held up his hand to interupt Raylan. “No, not talking about it tonight.”

Tim hauled his luggage strap over his shoulder and swiped Raylan’s bottle of Jim Beam. The mostly full one. And he walked out the door, snapping it shut quietly behind him.

Raylan would have felt better about it if the sniper had slammed it.

***

Raylan woke up to a hangover Saturday morning, trying to place where the hell he was. He’d spent more time not sleeping in his ratty motel room than he had the week he’d been in residence. Shell-shocked, he realized he really was back in Kentucky—hadn’t been there for a full week and already everything in his life had gone to hell. He’d fucked his ex-wife to absolutely no one’s pleasure; he’d spent an evening mostly disgusted with this favorite aunt; he’d fought with this father, letting Tim nearly kill the old bastard; he’d arrested the first person who ever treated him like an equal, the first guy he ever... well, that didn't matter now, and finally, what felt like most importantly, he’d alienated the one person he wanted to remain a constant in his life.

Yeah, Raylan had had a banner week, even in Kentucky terms. He missed Tim.

***

When he got out to his car, he realized he’d also missed Tim that morning.

Pressing call under Tim’s contact number in his cell phone, Raylan headed in the direction of the court house.

“Where are you?” he asked when Tim barked his last name into the phone, like he didn’t know it was Raylan calling him.

“Office. Was trying to get a line on Arnet when some douche-nozzle Feeb from the Louisville stormed in,” Tim said. “He and Art are yelling it out in his office.”

“Mad we’re pissing in their pool?” Raylan asked.

“Got it in one.”

“Reardon assigned the warrant to me,” Raylan said. “Not much he can do about it. It’s out of their purview.”

The silence stretched out without an answer from Tim, so Raylan dove in. “Listen Tim—”

“Got to run Raylan,” Tim cut him off, then hung up.

Raylan cursed.

***

Raylan strolled into the office just after noon and stopped at Tim’s desk.

“Hey, I brought you some ice cream—Chaney’s Bourbon Crunch,” Raylan said, hopefully.

Tim stood up from his chair and headed into the conference room. “No thanks."

“But it’s the best…” Raylan started.

“Lactose intolerant,” Tim said.

“Really?” Raylan’s voice cracked. He loved ice cream and couldn’t imagine not being able to eat it.

Tim stopped and turned to Raylan. “No. Not at all.” Tim’s words were deadpan.

“I’ll take it,” Rachel said, from her desk, her hand out making a grabby-hand gesture. She didn’t even look up from the file in front of her.

Raylan gave her the ice cream. She pulled a spoon from her desk drawer, and peeled long, thin curls from the top. “It’s good.” She dug the spoon in for a chunk of bourbon ball.

“Hmm-mmm, they mix Maker’s Mark into the vanilla,” Raylan said.

“So what did you do to piss off Tim?” Rachel asked.

“Gee Gladys Kravitz, that’s not at all invasive,” Raylan said.

“Bewitched, huh?”

“Used to watch reruns at my aunt Helen’s,” Raylan said. “My mama’s grandma was an old Granny Witch, you know… hill people magic. Appalachian witchcraft. I’d look at the pretty blonde witch on that show and try to make it connect with my mama’s people. Never could.”

“Huh. White people shows. I had the same problem with the Cosby’s though,” Rachel commented, taking another delicate bite of her ice cream. “Is this gonna make me drunk?’

Raylan half-laughed. “You a lightweight?”

Rachel gave him a hard look. “Whatever you did to him… he’s just dead inside,” Rachel said, serious.

Raylan wanted to ask what Tim felt like to her before, but didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Raylan, get in here,” Art bellowed.

“Think I’m being paged,” Raylan said.

Raylan sauntered into the conference room. The blinds had been pulled and Tim flipped a white board when he walked in.

“Well, hello Sleeping Beauty. We finally just got rid of Agent Barkley,” Art said. “Not a happy man. Tim’s been busy though.”

Raylan sank down in one of the chairs, looking at the names they’d connected on the board.

“I got ahold of the human servant for Tarron, the Louisville City Master—looking to set up a meet with the powers that be in Frankfort to see if we could uncover Arnet’s daytime resting place.”

Raylan nodded. “You think they’d roll over on him like that?”

“Maybe. Probably not. Worth a shot,” Tim said. “Seems Frankfort doesn’t have a master and has been led by Arnet up to now. He reports to Louisville.”

“Didn’t you say Tarron was the one who rolled over and blood-oathed to the Detroit city master?” Raylan said.

Tim’s smile was predatory, toothy with his slightly crooked right incisor and a just a bit off-putting in the way the smile didn’t match his eyes.

“Don’t suppose there’s any connection there between Detroit and the Dixie Mafia—seeing how Duffy and Arnet are known associates? Quite a few of the area vampire masters are blood-oathed in the direction of Detroit,” Raylan said.

“I’m beginning to see the appeal of these preternatural branch cases,” Art said.

“Yep, vampires are a bunch of megalomaniacal assholes, which means there’s always a bigger fish swimming ’round the one on your hook.” Raylan said. “Tarron’s human servant know anything about the extortion racket?”

“Oh noooo. Not at all.” Tim said. “Blamed it aaaall on Arnet.”

“Here’s the question: if we get to Arnet to serve him with an execution warrant, will he cop to it or roll over on the next guy up the food chain like Duffy did?” Raylan said. “Are we going to find out they’re extorting vampires all over the eastern US?”

“That’s probably the reason Agent Barkley’s panties are in such a twist.”

“We pissed in more than his pool,” Tim said.

“Did we just stumble into a preternatural crime syndicate?” Art asked.

“If what Tim said about the rumors around P-SOG are true, I think it’s probably just coming to a head,” Raylan said.

Tim crossed his arms against his chest and studied the board, his face blank. He turned to Raylan and Art. “I love it when you call me for backup,” Tim said, his smile cold.

“He didn’t call you,” Art reminded Tim. “I did.”

“Technicality. Raylan would have called if you hadn’t,” Tim said. “Let’s go find Arnet and see if he’ll roll. Something tells me we need to be there when he wakes up.”

***

The 90-minute drive to Louisville to meet Tarron’s human servant began with a vacuum of the taut silence in Tim’s newly requisitioned SUV. 

Raylan tried a couple times to talk to Tim before the former Ranger laid down the law.

“Raylan, I’m not ready to forgive you,” Tim said.

Seeing his opening, Raylan took it whether Tim liked it or not.

“You weren’t even in town, yet,” Raylan said. “And I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Would you have done it if you’d known I was coming to Kentucky?” Tim asked.

“I… I don’t know,” Raylan said. “Part of me always wanted her back. She left me for another man. And… you and me, we weren’t together.”

“If we had been?” Tim said.

“I’m not a cheater,” Raylan said.

“Yeah you are,” Tim countered. “Winona’s married.”

“I wouldn’t cheat on you,” Raylan said. “Hell, I thought of you when I was with her.”

“Jesus Christ, that just makes it worse,” Tim snapped. He turned up the radio.

***

Tarron’s human servant, Nikki, wore her auburn hair short and had a guileless gamine look about her. She would only meet them at a Starbucks of all places.

“Public meet. I guess our reputation precedes us,” Raylan said, as he opened the café’s door, entering first and eyeing the patrons, then moving out of the way for Tim to follow him in rolling his eyes.

“You know, I know how to sweep a room too,” Tim grumbled.

Raylan glanced up, surprised. He hasn’t consciously realized he was clearing the room before he allowed Tim to enter. “Uh… sorry,” Raylan mumbled back. “Habit I guess.”

Tim sat against the back wall facing the door, with Nikki to his right, sunning her face in the window. Raylan insisted on ordering for them and bringing their drinks to the table while Tim scowled at him. From the counter, he watched them while a barista made Tim’s half black tea/half dark roast and the woman’s cinnamon dolce latte. They weren’t talking, and Tim rarely, if ever, fidgeted. Raylan figured it was a Ranger thing—he’d disciplined any nervousness out of his system in the military. He wondered if moments like that were awkward for Tim, even though he refused to show any outward indication of how he felt. If Rachel was right, there were times Tim didn’t feel anything. Raylan didn't think she was right though.

The woman, Nikki, came off as serene, loose-limbed and happy to spend a quiet moment in the afternoon warmth. As a human servant, Raylan wondered how closely she was tied to Tarron. How much of her demeanor was she channeling from her vampire master to put on this show for them?

The mood at the table would look peaceful to an outsider, but to Raylan it felt rigid and tense—a coiled snake ready to strike.

“Here you go,” Raylan said, placing Nikki’s drink before her and Tim’s next to his arm.  Tim nodded.

Nikki gushed. “Oh thank you,” she said. “Tarron loves the burnt sugar taste of caramel. The cinnamon sets it off.” She sipped her drink and closed her eyes.

Tim looked like he was about to ask, but Raylan interrupted. “So you and Tarron are tightly bound?” he asked.

“We can communicate mentally through thoughts and dreams. He’s enjoying the sun and the caramel,” she said, tipping her cup to Raylan in thanks.

“Do you enjoy caramel?” Raylan asked.

Her laugh tinkled a bit like a vampire’s and Raylan wondered if it was all her laugh or if there wasn’t some vampire power at work there. He reached out with his necromancy and didn’t feel any outward aggressive power.

“You know, I really don’t,” she said. “But I can feel him enjoying it so it feels like I like it well enough to tolerate it.”

“Does he make you do a lot of things you hate?” Tim asked.

“Aren’t you sweet and protective! I see why all the vampires are so scared of you,” Nikki flirted, touching Tim’s arm. He stared at it like it was a poisonous snake but said nothing. She pulled it back. “Not at all Deputy Gutterson. A fully claimed human servant has some free will after all. I have more freedom from vampire power than normal humans. More than you for sure. I am not as sure about Deputy Givens here. He seems cut from another cloth,” she said. “I can even look vampires straight in the eye. Can you do that Deputy Gutterson?”

Tim pulled the lid off his cup and blew across his beverage before sipping it. “Nope, but it’s not been a problem for me,” he said. “Never kept me from doing my job.”  Tim sipped again, wincing at either the temperature or the bitterness.

“Clearly not,” she said. “So what are we going to do about Mr. Arnet?”

“We’d be obliged if you could tell us where to locate him,” Raylan said. “As Deputy Gutterson explained, I have a warrant of execution.”

“You know that he is under Tarron’s protection, yes? What you’re asking us is a great betrayal,” she said.

“And if Tarron were to stand in the way of a legal warrant of execution, that would probably lead us to wonder if we needed to look more carefully at his involvement in Emmitt Arnet’s crimes,” Raylan said.

Nikki took a deep sip of her drink, the temperature of the beverage was apparently irrelevant. She was quiet a moment.

“Your cell number?” she asked Tim.

He recited it, and she entered it into her phone. “I’m texting you an address. Emmitt lives north of Franklin, a large country home—full basement, almost to Peaks Mill off highway 127. He’ll be up before sundown, but not above ground. There’s a security gate. You’ll have to deal with that yourselves,” she said as she texted Tim.

Raylan knew some vampires with a strong enough of a power base woke earlier than others, before full dark. He wondered how many vampires Arnet had turned for a price—how big his power base was.

Tim met Raylan’s eyes looking a little surprised—either about the knowledge that Arnet was powerful enough to wake before sundown or at Nikki’s cooperation. Raylan had a bad feeling.

***

They made good time back to Frankfort, pulling up to the locked gate in Arnet’s driveway before four o’clock.

Tim had stopped at a Flying J in Waddy so they could put on their tactical gear, forcing Raylan to wear the navy slicker over his vest. He confiscated Raylan’s hat and handed him a tac helmet.

“No way,” Raylan said.

“Remember what happened to your last hat?” Tim reminded him.

“You’re not planning on setting this guy’s house on fire, are you?”

“Probably not,” Tim said, his lips pouty and clearly containing either ire or humor. “Can’t rule it out though.” He put Raylan’s hat in the trunk and their executioner kits in the back seat. Tim had a sheathed machete he was wearing concealed down his spine and a set of silver throwing knives strapped to his forearms.

“If you didn’t wear the slicker, you could get to your knives faster,” Raylan pointed out.

“And I would look like an assassin as opposed to an officer of the law,” Tim replied.

“Is there that much of a difference?” Raylan asked quietly.

Tim didn’t answer until he’d pulled them back out onto the highway. “I hope so.”

***

Now, sitting in front of Arnet’s house, Raylan felt again that something was very wrong. “Feels off,” he said.

“It does,” Tim said.

“Where are the henchmen?” Raylan asked.

“The what?”

“The minions. The baby vamps. The security fodder to throw down before us while Arnet makes for the hills. Even Duffy had muscle driving his RV,” Raylan said. “No way a guy like Arnet doesn’t have somebody watching his front gate.”

“You feel any vamps inside?” Tim asked.

Raylan stretched out with his senses, picking up dead but not the undead. “Shit. I think someone got to him before we could.”

***

They called in the locals, who turned out to be the Franklin County Sheriff’s deputies, who in turn contacted the security company and overrode the gate code while Tim and Raylan waited in the SUV.

“Would have been faster if you’d’ve let me shoot it,” Tim said.

“And run the risk of the yokels blaming whatever we find inside on us?” Raylan said.

“You’ve got a legal execution warrant,” Tim pointed out.

“After Bucks, I don’t need another messy execution.”

“I don’t know why not. It’s not like they can exile you any further into Kentucky.”

“You sure about that?”

***

Raylan and Tim weren’t standing over the decapitated, mutilated body of Emmitt Arnet until almost six o’clock.

“Someone not only did your job for you, but they did it well,” one of the sheriff’s deputies said.

Arnet’s head rested on one pillow in his king-sized basement bed, while his body rested beside it on the bed. His chest was torn open and his heart was ripped out—sitting on the bedside table, arteries and veins hanging off it, dark blood pooled around the heart and dripped down off the fine wood. Raylan was examining at punctures in the chambers of the heart itself. He lined his fingers up with them, painting a clear picture that someone with long nails… or claws… had gripped the heart.

“Heart’s not easy to get to,” Tim said.

Raylan nodded, turning to vampire’s mutilated chest cavity. He was interested in the striations of whatever had dug into Arnet’s chest—the wounds along the side of the gaping hole where Arnet’s missing heart was once nestled. “Do these look like claw marks to you?” Raylan asked. He pointed to several places on the body, then also to the punctures on the heart itself.

Tim called the crime techs over and asked them to swab the wounds for DNA. “We need to check for lycanthrope—something big, probably a predator. Cat family, wolf maybe?”

Raylan nodded. “Run it all,” Raylan said. “If we can narrow down the type of were, we might be able to nail down the perp. This attack… shows a lot of control and only claw wounds, no bites. There are proportionately fewer lycanthropes who can control a partial shift in any one were group.”

Tim was staring at the bed, then at the heart on the end table. 

"What's wrong?" Raylan asked.

"Seems like there should be more blood than this, even for a vamp." 

Raylan agreed. They searched all Arnet's vulnerable major arteries for exsanguination wounds, but didn't find them. Most exsanguination kills severed arteries in the neck to rely on the heart to help drain the body. Vampires hearts no long beat so draining a vampire was far different from draining a human. And even then, it wouldn't kill one, but only maim it. 

"Could they have drained him, then he healed?" Tim wondered.

"Would he have enough energy to heal with that much blood loss?" Raylan countered.

It was another question they put to the crime techs for the coroner to look into.

***

Eight o’clock that night found Raylan and Tim in Art’s office with the chief reading them the riot act.

“How the fuck did you fail to execute a warrant on this?” Art yelled at Raylan. “Now we have to investigate this asshole’s murder.”

“Art, we actually got a good lead—”

“Shut up Gutterson, unless you want to be the one to call Judge Reardon and inform him of the status of his warrant,” Art said, his eyebrows climbing higher the louder he got.

Tim waved his hands open in a “not me” gesture. “Thanks but no. I think I’m going to head out for the night. You good to file the reports tonight Raylan?” Tim turned to the door and was halfway through it.

“Sure,” Raylan said, nodding.

“Good, I think I got a date tonight,” Tim said, letting the door close behind him. 

Raylan kind of hoped Tim missed hearing the way his voice cracked when he said, “What?”

***

Two hours later, Raylan was back in the conference room again sitting across from Boyd and his attorney Monica.

Boyd decided he wanted to talk. After thirty minutes with his attorney, Boyd sat down with Raylan, Rachel, and Art.

“Where’s Tim?” Rachel whispered.

“Date, I think,” Raylan said, concentrating on the veneer on the table.

Rachel shook her head. “You’re fucking this up, Givens.”

Raylan side-eyed her, then shrugged. “Tell me about it.”

“I would if I could.”

***

Boyd had a lot to say.

He more openly talked about Bo’s connection with the Miami Cartel.

“It’s a whole network in the south,” Boyd said. “Bo runs everything from black market trade and fencing, running drugs to human and monster trafficking.”

“Monster trafficking?” Art asked.

“You know, rare species of preternatural creatures.”

“Like?” Raylan said.

“He’s into prostitution,” Boyd said.

“I knew that Boyd. You grew up in a whore house.”

“If you’re gonna talk about my mama that way, we’re done here Raylan.”

“Sorry, go ahead,” Raylan said.

“He’s into making movies with the were and zombies. Dirty movies. Snuff movies.”

“You blowing smoke up my ass on this Boyd?” Raylan asked.

“Would I do that Raylan?” Boyd said.

“Yes.”

“What’s the connection with the Miami cartel?” Art asked.

“They’re like port number one in the network,” Boyd said.

“Can you prove any of this, Mr. Crowder?” Art said.

“Bo was a human servant for one of its master vamps for years.”

“Who was his sire?” Raylan said.

Boyd didn’t reply to the question. “He killed him and accumulated his power.”

“See that’s what I don’t understand. Vampires keep their human servants close to increase their power. Why would a Miami master vampire mark Bo and leave him almost a thousand miles away?”

“I can’t rightly understand that either Raylan,” Boyd said. “I know if I were a vampire, I’d want my human servant right close at hand.”

“Good thing you hate vampires, Boyd.”

“Isn’t it Raylan?”

“This is all fine and good, Mr. Crowder,” Art said. “But do you have any way we can check this out? This could just be your word against your daddy’s, and you’ve not been acting all that kindly toward him of late.”

Monica broke in. “We’d like you to talk to AUSA Vasquez and meet again tomorrow evening. We’ll discuss proof and a deal at that time.”

***

Raylan sat at the table on the shared porch between his and Tim’s rooms drinking beer in the dark. He’d unscrewed the lamp in the porch light.  

He was only on his second when Tim pulled up, followed by a ridiculously blue Subaru that parked next to his SUV. A slender blond waited by at the front of his Subaru to follow Tim, who stopped to gather his executioner’s kit from the back. The Federal law was written so that they had to keep their kits either with them or secured with reasonable care.

Raylan watched them climb the steps together, the blond laughing at something low Tim said, and he hated the kid on sight. He looked younger than Tim… young enough that Raylan, at forty, probably had twenty years on the guy easy. Raylan knew he had good ten years on Tim as it was, but he’d never dwelled on the age difference until that moment. And dwelling on it sat heavy in his gut, sour and ugly. He remembered being twenty-nine and hurt. 

He didn’t hate Tim for the blond. Tim wasn't a doormat, and Raylan had been married long enough to Winona to be thoroughly schooled in how effectively he lived up to being an asshole. The funny thing, though, was that he hated the blond, and his stupid-looking Alfred E. Neuman ears with the same fervency he’d once hated Gary.

But he didn't hate Tim. Raylan knew he had it bad. 

Tim stopped at the top of the steps seeing Raylan.

Raylan tipped his bottle to Tim.

“Raylan,” Tim acknowledged.

“Tim,” Raylan replied, keeping his tone even. He didn’t look at Alfred again. He’d seen enough. He got up and took his beer into his room.

“Is that a friend of yours?” Raylan heard Alfred ask before he could shut them out completely. No longer in the mood to drink, Raylan put the remaining bottles back into the fridge, stripped down to his wife-beater and boxers and turned out the light.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the last he’d heard of Alfred.

The blond was a screamer. Raylan was almost asleep when he heard… high keening moans that weren’t Tim’s. _Christ, what the hell was Tim doing to the guy? And why had he never done that to Raylan?_

Raylan buried his head under a pillow. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep when the voice that had been keening now filled the night with shrill screams of horror.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Moving into some graphic violence a bit here.

The screams woke Raylan first.

Then he heard gunfire from the direction of Tim’s room, moments before the window in his own room crashed inward.

Raylan automatically grabbed his Glock from the bedside table, taking aim from the bed, he began shooting. He’d left the porch light unscrewed so he was shooting more with instinct than with the help of good light. His thought his first two shots hit center mass, but failed to faze the intruder.

It was then he noticed the smell—rotted flesh and decomp. His senses tingled with the nearing dead. He reached out to flip the lamp beside the bed, illuminating a zombie disentangling himself from the chair he’d fallen into when crawling through Raylan’s window.

In the light, he could see, or maybe just feel, there was no one home. This wasn’t a typical zombie brought back to life with its consciousness returned to it and given orders by its animator. He knew commanding it wouldn’t work, but he tried.

“Stop. I command you to stop,” Raylan yelled, pushing out with all his power to no avail.

Raylan flew toward the closet, wanting to reach his animator’s or executioner bags for more weapons. As he moved, the zombie tracked him—making him think this was basically the Voudun equivalent of a hit man. He wondered if there was a gris-gris involved or if the zombie had been animated with the sole purpose of taking him out.

Raylan was vaguely aware that he could still hear Alfred screaming and the general sound of thumping coming from next door. Then he heard more gunfire. If Tim was still shooting, they were all right.

And Tim probably had the right idea. Crippling the zombie wouldn’t stop him, but it would slow him down. The zombie rounded the end of the bed heading for him, so Raylan aimed for the joints, taking out a knee, toppling the zombie.

While he had the zombie down, he grabbed his cell phone and called for backup, giving them the motel name, requesting an extermination team, and informing them two US deputy marshals were involved.

“Tell them to follow the gunfire and gore,” Raylan said.

“Tim! Gutterson!” Raylan yelled his name a couple times to find a break in the gunfire. “Zombie—one down here.”

“One,” Tim yelled back. Raylan was relieved to hear he was all right. “It’s down, but kicking.”

“I called backup.”

Raylan shot twice more at the zombie, using its arms to pull itself toward him. He took out one arm, and then went for the jaw, leaving it hanging off the zombie’s head. A zombie’s most dangerous weapons were its hands and teeth. This zombie had been risen from a man who’d been dead for some time. Not a lot of body fluid spattered Raylan at close range, but what did stunk like a opossum that had died trapped under their porch one summer in Harlan—before Raylan was old enough for roadkill to follow him around.

Raylan shoved his cell into his executioner’s kit, grabbed the straps of the two bags in one hand, his Glock in the other and crawled across the bed, trying to avoid the downed zombie.

He was nearly clear of the bed, just crawling off, when another zombie launched itself through the broken out window frame.

This one was fresh in every way. Freshly dead. Freshly risen. Faster and stronger.

It pinned Raylan to the bed with its weight. This zombie lead with its teeth, finding purchase at his left shoulder, chewing its blunt teeth deeper into the round part of Raylan’s deltoid. He knew if it found enough purchase, it would tear away a chunk of his flesh. And then go back for more.

Raylan was vaguely aware that Tim had stopped shooting. Raylan considered yelling to him for backup, but he wasn’t sure he’d have time so he pressed the muzzle of his Glock to the underside of the zombie’s jaw, turned his head to the side, squeezed his eyes shut and fired into the zombie’s mandible, shooting through its head and then again through its neck—hoping that he could paralyze its thought processes enough to slow it down. No matter what Raylan shot off the zombie, if it had been given an order to kill, all of its parts would keep trying to kill—connected to the zombie or not. But a disembodied lower leg was hell of a lot less threatening than a fully functioning, albeit undead, brain.

The immediate result was both good and bad. The pressure of the zombie’s teeth in his shoulder let up, but Raylan’s left ear was numb and ringing in his head from the close quarters gunfire. He’d be lucky to hear right from it for a week. Add to that, he was covered in blood and gore. The injury to the zombie’s jugular vein region was still spurting blood over the both of them. The man this zombie had been was very recently dead for this much blood to be pouring out between them.

Raylan tried to shove the zombie off of him, but couldn’t. He was in the process of wiggling out from under it, using the gore between them like lubricant to help him slide free, and was nearly clear, when the zombie grabbed his neck, his palm and wide finger span wrapped around Raylan’s throat.

Raylan was afraid to let go of the Glock. He used his free hand to work fingers under the zombie’s hand before it broke his hyoid, strangled him, or cut off his air or circulation altogether. He shifted his head, leaning back and away trying to get a good breath of air into his lungs.

Then he started shooting through the zombie’s elbow, until it was free of its body. Its hand was still tight on Raylan’s neck, but he was free of the bed and the weight of the zombie itself.

Raylan dropped the gun and headed for the door, prying the fingers of his left hand under zombie’s grip so he could breathe. He flipped the lock on the door, opened it and ran straight into Tim before he fell to his knees, dizzy from a lack of air.

***

Raylan sat on the side of a gurney in the dim light from the cab of a bright red ambulance courtesy of the Lexington Fire Department. A fire department paramedic had cleaned the bite and the area around it, dressed it, and tried to give Raylan yet another tetanus shot. He stood in the background grumbling when Raylan tried to refuse medical treatment altogether; he wanted to be out on the scene. But since he’d technically passed out, they wanted to give him an MRI to check for neurological injuries or minute breaks in his hyoid. The paramedic finally bullied him into submission by telling him he could keel over and die in three hours by ignoring an injury they could have found and treated.

Rachel stood at the back of the bus in the open doors asking Raylan questions. The running theory was someone had taken out a hit on both Raylan and Tim. The question of the hour was whether it was Bo Crowder or a Harlan contingent, or had they pissed off the Dixie Mafia, or could it have been someone from Buck’s crowd in Miami?

When Raylan smelled the smoke, he shifted his body on the gurney so he could see out the back without straining his neck.  

“Where’s Tim?” Raylan asked, his voice scratchy.

“Overseeing the exterminators from the LFD’s special ops division. He and several of the firefighters took axes to the zombies,” Rachel said. “The parts are still moving.”

“They’ll keep moving ’til Tim and I die or we burn ’em,” Raylan whispered. “How many zombies went after Tim?”

“Just the one,” Rachel said. “He’s got bigger bullets than you do, I think.”

Raylan nodded. He probably did—or had ones that tore up more zombie on impact than Raylan’s. Tim had the most dangerous toys.

“Fingerprint the zombies,” Raylan rasped with urgency. “That big one…” he gestured to his neck to indicate the one who strangled him “freshly dead. Murder victim or wasn’t embalmed. Check morgues for missing and funeral homes that do green burials.”  

Raylan hadn’t smelled any formaldehyde indicating embalming fluid either zombie that had come after him, and since he was wearing the insides of both of them, that ruled out the traditionally buried dead. The bodies had to come from somewhere.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll check on it.”

***

A few minutes later Tim climbed up into the back of the bus. Tim had managed to find black jeans, a white T-shirt, and one of those Marshals jackets he loved so much. Raylan was sitting there in gore-covered boxers and a wife-beater drying to a rusty-red color. Flecks of dried blood and brain covered his face and torso.

“Can we have a few minutes?” Tim asked the paramedic.

“He needs to be under observation until we get him to the hospital,” the man told Tim.

“Give me a few minutes alone with him and then he’s all yours,” Tim said.

The paramedic exited through the swinging door on the side of the bus, leaving it open. Raylan turned his body in Tim’s direction.

Tim moved in close, then squatted down in front of him, his eyes running over Raylan.

“Where’d Alfred go?” Raylan asked.

Tim’s single dimple between his brows deepened further. “Who?”

Raylan waved his hand at his ears. “Alfred E. Neuman. Blond with the ears.”

He watched a series of emotions work themselves out in Tim’s lips as the other marshal tried to keep them from playing out on his face. Amusement, check. Shame, check. A touch of annoyance, check. Tim took one of Raylan’s hands, rusty from dried blood and laced their fingers together, holding his hand palm to palm in a mirrored position.

“The loud one,” Raylan said.

“I know the one you mean,” Tim said. “Turns out I’m not his type. ‘Too Z Day’, apparently.”

“Huh,” Raylan said. “S’what I like about you.” Raylan turned their joined hands over once to look at their palms, uncovering part of Tim’s “One Shot, One Kill” tattoo sticking out from the jacket sleeve. Raylan turned their joined hands back over looking at their knuckles and fingers lined up next to each other, every other one: bloody, bare, bloody, bare.

Tim leaned in and pressed his forehead to Raylan’s.

“I want to kiss you but you’re covered in zombie,” Tim said.

“I know,” Raylan said.

Tim huffed half a laugh, keeping their foreheads touching. “Thanks Han.” Tim ran a thumb down across Raylan’s cheekbone, brushing away drying blood and brain matter, then wrapped his hand around the back of his neck. He pressed their noses together.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Tim said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“You were there,” Raylan whispered, rubbing his nose against Tim’s. “Just don’t leave me.”

Tim nodded and stood up. Raylan held onto his hand.

“Hey, we’re ready to head out. I’m going to ride along,” Tim called out to the paramedic.

“I didn’t mean don’t leave me alone at just this moment….” Raylan said.

Tim smiled and hiked an eyebrow. “I know.”

***

Rachel had reported to Art what Raylan said about the bodies.

He confirmed the techs had gathered pictures, DNA, and prints before the exterminators from the Fire Department’s special ops division started a controlled burn on sight, feeding the moving parts into the flames. No part of any of the three zombies had stopped moving.  When a crushed, dismembered hand had tried to pull itself in the direction of the ambulance where Raylan was being treated, Art ordered everything burned on site. The coroner agreed, saying he didn’t even want them to bring the parts back to his morgue if there was no way to control them.

Art watched his two assigned preternatural deputy marshals together inside the ambulance, a light behind them illuminating their profile.  

Art nodded in the direction of the truck to Rachel. “What's going on there?” he asked, though he already knew. He just wanted to hear Rachel’s take on it.

She took in the scene playing out inside the emergency vehicle. “Nope, that there is what we call a private moment,” she said, smiling placidly.

“That's what I was afraid of,” Art said, shaking his head. “No wonder Gutterson knows how to wrangle him.”

***

Raylan suffered no more than a sore neck, a slight case of laryngitis, and a healing bite wound Tim obsessively checked for infection. They left the hospital by cab and went to salvage what they could of their possessions from motel room crime scenes, and moving into a new room. Weapons went into Tim’s truck. Clothes that the crime techs hadn’t taken went to a cleaning service, the dumpster or to their new room.

“Your hat came through mostly unscathed,” Tim said, handing it over to Raylan.

“Hmm-mmm,” Raylan said, scratching dried blood spray with his fingernail off the places where it had hit the beaver fur felt. “Beaver’s pretty resilient to liquid and staining. I got a hat brush somewhere.” Raylan looked around the room as if he’d never seen it. They’d given him some decent painkillers before they released him.

“Wondered how you got away with a white hat,” Tim murmured.

Raylan shot him a disgruntled look. “What? I’m gonna hear a black hat like an outlaw?”

***

Raylan woke up early afternoon to find Tim at a table in their new room, his hat upside-down, the lining pulled completely out or just sticking up in places.

“What the hell Tim?” Raylan said, his voice wispy and appalled. “I just got the blood off it.”

“Good morning to you, too, Raylan,” Tim said.

“That’s a four-hundred-dollar hat,” Raylan said. “And it fits.”

“Stop whining,” Tim told him. “Just get your lazy ass out of bed and I’ll show you.”

Raylan hauled himself out of bed and went in the direction of the bathroom instead. Not bothering to shut the door, Tim heard him sigh as he took an impressively long piss. Tim figured at least Raylan wasn’t treating him like a woman. He heard teeth-brushing and water running next as he worked another part of the lining free, and turned the sweatband of the hat out.

He felt a hand on warm hand on his shoulder and Raylan standing behind him looking over his other shoulder. 

“Didn’t hear you gargle any salt water,” Tim reminded him.

“Don’t nag,” Raylan said, then lifted Tim’s chin to kiss him. It was a chaste, brief kiss. “This okay?” Raylan asked.

“You’d know if it wasn’t,” Tim said.

Raylan nodded in agreement. “Now why the hell are you tearing up my hat?”

Tim took two wooden pegs with a wire that ran between them in each hand and stretched it out. “Know what this is?” Tim asked.

“Homemade garrote?” Raylan guessed. “What’s the wire made of?”

“Silver-infused piano wire,” Tim said.

“Where’d you find that on a Sunday morning in Kentucky?” Raylan asked.

“Robbed a church organ,” Tim said, deadpan.

Raylan just stared at him. “No, seriously.”

“Weapon safe,” Tim said.

Raylan half-laughed. “Figures you’d travel with DIY weapon materials.”

“The cattleman crown in your hat makes a great place to hide the handles,” Tim said. He tucked one handle into a groove inside the top of Raylan’s hat on one side, then wound the piano wire down one side and around the inside of sweat band twice. Then he ran the wire back up the other side to fix the handle in the other groove. Tim turned the hat over and showed him the weapon was concealed from the outside.

“Nice,” Raylan said and nodded.

Tim grinned. “Go take a shower and I’ll finish putting the lining back. Art wants us in the office this afternoon to talk about the zombie hits,” Tim said.

“All right.” Raylan headed for the bathroom.

“You know, you’re not supposed to put a Stetson down on its brim,” Tim said, his eyes on his work.

“Why?” Raylan said, stopping to turn and scratch his stomach.

“Messes with the shape,” Tim said.

“How do you know?”

“Grew up in Texas.”

Raylan hadn’t known that.

***

Raylan and Tim found themselves sitting in Art’s office being chewed on again.

Art wasn’t so angry that they’d apparently had a hit ordered on them, though he was frustrated they didn’t know which camp it came from: Bo’s, Boyd’s, the Dixie Mafia’s, or Miami. He was mildly ticked off that Wynn Duffy was in the wind, and Emmitt Arnet was dead. Harlan had been suspiciously peaceful since Boyd had been waiting out his three-day hold for arraignment.

What Art was angry about was what he’d seen play out in the ambulance the night before.

“According to Hoyle—” Raylan started.

“Now wait a minute, who’s Hoyle?” Art said.

Raylan shook his head as if trying to knock loose the confusion. “No one. It’s, uh…” he shrugged, “you know, a saying, like if you’re quoting the rules.”

“Right. It’d be a saying if we were playing cards on a riverboat,” Tim said. He was working his lips like he was trying not to smile.

Raylan shot him an eat-shit look.

“In 1815,” Tim added and flashed Raylan a quick grin.

“Boyd would have gotten that,” Raylan said.

“Oh, I got it,” Tim said.

“Yeah, Raylan. You trying to say Boyd’s smarter than I am?” Art gave Raylan a pointed look.

“No, definitely no. Not smarter.”

“Just probably more well-read,” Tim muttered.

“Gutterson, don’t be a smart-ass. I’ll knock you back to a long stint as the prisoner Carpool Mommy,” Art said.

“Huh. Minivan come with that gig?” Tim said. 

“Oh yeah. With a hot-pink travel mug and a bumper sticker that says ‘Dumbass on board,’” Art said. “Sounds attractive, doesn’t it?”

Tim scrunched his face up like he was considering it and made a so-so gesture with his hand. “Maybe a little boring after working vampires.”

“Can’t have that. Then you’ll just start shooting people—”

Raylan and Tim interrupted together. “Vampires are—”

“I know,” Art held out a hand to quiet them, “people. Tim, shut up. Raylan, what the hell was your point?”

“How’d I end up the one in trouble?” Tim muttered to Raylan.

“I’m quickly finding out that between the two of you, one of you never leaves ‘trouble.’ My shit list a goddamned rotation of both your names that Rachel keeps track of for me.”

“So that’s why she’s his favorite,” Tim said.

“Knew there was a reason,” Raylan said.

“She’s the only one organized enough to do it,” Art said. “Your reports are a mess. You”—he pointed to Tim—“can’t spell for shit, and you”—he pointed at Raylan—“don’t know what the hell a comma is for.” Art let that sit for a minute in the room. “Now Raylan? You were saying….”

“What was I saying?”

“According to Hoyle…” Art offered

“Oh yeah!”  Raylan smiled. “According to Hoyle, there’s no rule that says two deputy marshals can’t be romantically involved.”

“But if they are, they shouldn’t be partners,” Art said.

“Well, that’s if you were trying to build a case, right? Might taint the case… get it tossed out of court. With preternatural crime, it probably wouldn’t,” Raylan said.

“Go on,” Art said.

“We’re not building a case with preternatural hunts most of the time.”

“What Raylan’s trying to say is the case is generally made before we show up and they hand us a warrant of execution,” Tim said. “The Preternatural division is… different.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. What am I going to do when the two of you are my only witnesses when I’m trying to get a warrant?” Art said.

“Even the word of two deputy marshals isn’t enough for an execution warrant anymore, Chief, you saw that with Arnet’s case,” Raylan said. “Not since they struck the preternatural three strikes law down. Most cases carry some degree of a proof these days—unless there’s an immediate threat to human life. Then a single marshal’s testimony is enough.”

Art huffed. “I don’t like it. I don’t want to see it in the office. No PDA—this is Kentucky for Christ’s sake, the clerks of the court around here are only willing to issue gay marriage certificates when a judge sends one of us to make them do it,” Art said.

“And you were going to assign me to carpool miscreants. Give me that job,” Tim said.

“No way Gutterson, you steer clear of Morehead. That fucking Kim Davis doesn’t want anyone but white, heterosexual humans marrying in Kentucky,” Art said.

“Was just gonna take that poor woman who has to sit next to her some Diet Mountain Dew,” Tim muttered.

Art snorted, but Raylan pressed on. “She turned down preternatural license apps, too?” Raylan asked, though Art didn’t answer the question. “Maybe you should send _me_ over next time she does that.”

“ _Both_ of you stay out of Morehead, in fact avoid Rowan County altogether. If this…” Art circled his finger in the air between them, “…this thing between you becomes an issue, Tim is going back to New Mexico. The only reason I’m not sending his ass back now is I need him to back you. And for some reason, the two of you with your ‘The Executioner and Death’ crap scare the holy fuck out of the local preternatural community,” Art said.

“Our reputations precede us,” Raylan said.

“They only give nicknames to the scariest marshals,” Tim said.

“Just keep the fraternization under wraps,” Art said and kicked them out of his office.

“That could have gone worse,” Raylan said.

“I feel like I’m back in the Army living under ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’,” Tim said.

Raylan felt his heart clench when he saw the stricken look on Tim’s face. He reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, and Tim shrugged him off.

“Uh-uh,” Raylan said, grabbing him by the elbow and dragging him into the conference room, then shutting the door. Their coworkers could see but not hear them. “You just started talking to me again, I’m not backing off.”

“I’m all right,” Tim said.

“We’re not going to be in Kentucky forever,” Raylan said. “And I’m out in Miami.”

“Didn’t know that,” Tim said.

“That’s because every time you finish killing the bad vampire, you jump on a plane twenty minutes later,” Raylan pointed out.

“Used to have a commitment I had to get back to,” Tim said.

“And now you don’t,” Raylan said, his eyes tightening on Tim.

“Depends on you,” Tim said, crossing his arms in front of him, letting the silence after his words stretch out.

“No it doesn’t. You either have someone or don’t,” Raylan said.

“I don’t,” Tim said. “Would like to.”

“To what?”

“Have you.”

Raylan rubbed his goatee. “I can work with that.”

“All right,” Tim said, and grinned, then strolled out to his assigned desk.

Raylan tracked Tim’s strut with narrowed eyes, weighing what had just taken place, then went out to his desk and sat down.

“So no more Alfreds?” Raylan said quietly over the glass partition separating their desks.

Tim didn’t look up from his computer, his fingers continuing to type. “Or Winonas.”

Raylan nodded. “Fair enough.”


	14. Chapter 14

Art wasn’t back from a late dinner with this wife when Monica Vespucci strolled into the US Marshals office stating that her client wanted to make a deal.

Tim had been close to dragging Raylan out the door for dinner, but ended up calling Art, Rachel, and AUSA Vasquez to let them know Boyd and his attorney were ready to meet.

Boyd shuffled in wearing an inmate-orange jumpsuit and met with Monica in the conference room. Monica shooed Raylan and Tim out of the room when they tried to chat with Boyd, insisting on client confidentiality, even snapping the blinds shut to prove her point. They waited at their desks for the rest of the crew to file back into the office.

When everyone was circled around the conference room table again, Vasquez led the questioning.

“What information do you have that would lead to a felony conviction your father?” Vasquez said.

“You wanted to know his sire? A man named Ignacio from Florida.”

“Ignacio Antinori?” Vasquez asked, sounding incredulous.

“I believe that was his name, yes. But he only went by his first name, as vampires tend to,” Boyd said.

“That’s impossible,” Vasquez countered. “Antinori was killed in 1940.”

“Actually, the rumors of his human death were greatly exaggerated, and entirely erroneous. Ignacio was old Florida mafia—with a group that brought heroine into the country from overseas. With a series of human servants strategically located around the country, the old Florida mafia built a vampire network around the country to run drugs, prostitutes, weres, anything the black market demanded. Back then, vampires were still…,” Boyd paused for long breath’s length of time, allowing his eyes to track over to Raylan then slide to Tim, “…in the closet, if you will. During Prohibition, they ran spirits. Now they run drugs or whatever contraband sells. That network the old Florida mafia built is the same one the Miami Cartel runs today,” Boyd said, raising an eyebrow at Vasquez.

Tim thought Vasquez was buying what Boyd was selling a little too readily. The man either just creamed his pants or was on the edge.

After Boyd’s statement, Art’s eyes wandered the room landing momentarily on Rachel. She nodded so slightly that Tim wouldn’t have caught the exchange confirming that Boyd wasn’t lying had he not been watching closely.

“How did Bo survive killing his maker?” Raylan asked.

Boyd eyed Raylan wearily. “I don’t know. I know Bo nearly drained him,” Boyd said.

“Miami can’t be too happy that Bo usurped his master,” Raylan said.

“Well, my understanding was that they were ready for a change,” Boyd said.

“Why is Bo horning in on the mining in Harlan?” Tim asked.

“Only type of business to make any kind of money in Harlan that wasn’t illegal was coal,” Boyd said. “There’s about 6,000 billion tons of coal left buried in Harlan County. From the times our granddaddies and their daddies started digging it out to date doesn’t scratch what’s left. Vampires, being public creatures now-a-days, need legitimate businesses behind them.”

“Vampire tourism won’t wash the kind of money smuggling and drug running produces,” Raylan stated.

“I suppose not Raylan,” Boyd said. “Myself, I wouldn’t know.”

“But you _do_ know an awful lot about your father’s secrets,” Art said. “Why is it you’re just spilling them to us now? What is it you’re looking for here, Mr. Crowder?”

“Nothin’ goes over the devil’s back that don’t back come up his front,” Boyd said. “My daddy’s been turning the county into a hub of vampires, lycanthropes, every sinful thing you can think of—and squeezing out the good folk who been there for generations.”

“Cut the Humans First crap Boyd,” Raylan said. “What is you want from us?”

“A clean slate.”

Monica cleared her throat. “My client would be willing to make a deposition tonight, on the record, in exchange for immunity of any crimes you believe he is guilty of committing in Harlan County—all the recent preternatural deaths and mine explosions. When you manage to get Bo Crowder’s case in front of a judge for an execution warrant, my client will testify.”

“All right,” Vasquez said, “let me talk to my boss and we’ll see what we can do.”

“We’ll wait,” Monica said. “We’d like to do this tonight. My client’s going out of a limb here. His father is a dangerous, powerful vampire.”

Vasquez went into Art’s office to make some calls.

“One more question, Mr. Crowder,” Art said. “We had a couple of our deputies attacked last night by out-of-control zombies. Do you happen to know anything about that?”

“My client has been in jail for two days,” Monica said. “He can hardly be considered a viable person of interest, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

Boyd held up his hand, looking at Raylan and then Tim. “Who was attacked? Did it happen to be Raylan, by chance?”

Raylan almost answered, but Art held up his hand.

“Actually, Mr. Crowder, it was. Can you think of a reason your father would want to kill two of my deputies?” Art asked.

“If one was Raylan, sure. Vampires been killin’ necromancers for centuries,” Boyd said.

Raylan wanted to groan. Twice in one day he’d been outed.

“Mr. Crowder,” Rachel said, speaking up for the first time. “Why would a vampire, your father in particular, want to kill Raylan, if he was a necromancer?”

“They can control the dead, even vampires,” Boyd said. “Worse, a necromancer in the hands of a powerful master is a dangerous weapon.”

“I’m hardly likely to find myself in the hands of a master vampire. More like the opposite,” Raylan said, shrugging it off. “I would like to know where the Vaudun symbols in the church came from.”

“I don’t know, Raylan,” Boyd said. “My hand to God.” He up his hand as if that proved his point.

Raylan looked at Rachel slyly, who again inclined her head a hair, indicating she thought Boyd was telling the truth.

“You don’t know any Voodoo priest or priestess, any Vaudun practioners, or even necromancers operating out of Harlan County?” Raylan pressed.

“Outside your family, Raylan, no,” Boyd said.

Art shot Raylan a sharp look. “All right,” Raylan said, holding out his hands indicating his was done sticking his nose into the interrogation.

When Vasquez finally returned, he had a court reporter and a camcorder. They spent the next two hours sifting through what Boyd knew of his father’s crimes that could be used against him under the RICO Act and where and how the marshals could collect the evidence to support an execution warrant for Bo Crowder.

When they were finished, Monica insisted that if Boyd was going back to holding, he be held in isolation for the remainder of the night, then moved to protective custody when released from jail the next morning. Art agreed they’d move him to a safe house until the Marshals office could pull together a case against his father using the information obtained in his deposition.

***

Raylan and Tim didn’t get back to their room until nearly midnight.

“We need to drop by the old motel and pick up your car,” Tim had said when they pulled away from the court house. Raylan wasn’t in any condition to drive the night before, fresh from the hospital on pain medication.

Raylan followed Tim to their new digs.

This time around, while Raylan was too woozy to know better, Tim had picked the accommodations. He checked them into an Extended Stay room out on Tates Creek Road about a fifteen-minute drive from the court house. The room had a kitchen, a couch, a table, and a king-sized bed. It was also on the second floor, with only one window and a door Tim could jam at night. 

Now that he was really aware of the change, Raylan tried the arguments that the room was too nice, too expensive, and made it too obvious that they were sleeping together. But Tim put his foot down.

“Art knows. Besides, it has a kitchen, and there’s an on-site laundry room. Do you realize how much zombie we’ve worn since we got here?” Tim asked pointedly.

Raylan had to admit the bed he’d woken up in this morning was less lumpy. It helped Tim’s case that the motel Raylan had initially picked out for his Kentucky stay flat-out refused to rent either of them another room after they’d exploded three zombies in two of their rooms, then the Lexington Fire Department burned them in their parking lot.

“You take the first shower and don’t get your dressing wet,” Tim said, pushing Raylan toward the bathroom.

“You’re kind of bossy.”

“Yep,” Tim agreed popping the “p.” Then, he sank down on one end of the couch with a beer and his laptop and started working on emails, Raylan thought, and ignoring him.

***

After his shower, Tim checked Raylan’s zombie bite for infection, then redressed the wound.

“Looks good,” he said. “Maybe you do heal as faster than normal.”

Raylan nodded. He did. He was rarely sick.

“Art seemed to take the necromancer news well,” Tim said.

“He doesn’t know what it means. When Rachel tells him, then we’ll see how that goes.”

Tim handed Raylan a glass of water and shook two big horse pills out of a bottle.

Raylan took the water, but stared at the offered pills.

“Antibiotic,” Tim said. “Doctor’s orders.” He showed Raylan the bottle with his name on it and instructions for two pills twice a day.

“Why didn’t you give me some this morning then?” Raylan asked.

“How do you know I didn’t?”

Raylan squinted at Tim.

“I didn’t,” Tim said, rolling his eyes “You’d just come off IV antibiotics. They said to start these tonight.”

***

Tim came out of the bathroom in a towel after his shower. Raylan was in bed on his back, his good arm over his shoulder.

“You asleep?” Tim asked.

“Uh-uh.”

Tim hit the lights in the kitchen, then the other lights in the room until the only lamp left on was by Raylan’s side of the bed.

He felt Tim sidle up beside him under the covers and was surprised the younger man was naked. His skin was warm and a little bit damp from his shower. Tim propped his head in his hand supported by his elbow on a pillow. 

“No shorts?” he asked. Raylan meant to make a joke, but he winced at how, even to himself, he ended up sounding forlorn.

“Dropped off at the cleaners with the rest of our clothes while you were sleeping this morning. Some were victims of zombie guts, and the others were still rank from the Harlan trip.”

“Maybe you have a point about the on-site laundry,” Raylan said, yawning.

“You wanna switch sides?” Tim asked.

Raylan side-eyed him. “No, this is my side of the bed.”

Tim huffed a laugh. “All right. Just with your shoulder, this is not conducive to intimacy.”

“Sure it is,” Raylan said, starting to roll toward Tim realizing that would put all his weight on the healing wound. He went to put his arm around Tim, then realized it would stretch his arm at the wrong angle. His only option would be lying side by side or turning away from Tim. “We could spoon?” Raylan suggested. He’d liked sleeping with Tim curled behind him that night he’d taken down Arlo.

Tim raised his eyebrows, as if to say go ahead. Raylan rolled away from Tim, then scooted back closer to him and the center of the bed. Tim curled into him, layering their legs, wrapping an arm around his chest, his fingers landing on one of Raylan’s nipples.

Raylan turned his head to look back and Tim and winced. Tim was about to kiss him, then stopped. “Your neck hurt?”

“Little bit,” Raylan said, “kiss me anyway.”

Tim did.

Slowly, he played Raylan’s body, starting with the pads of his fingers rolling Raylan’s nipples into tight, sensitive nubs. Tim’s mouth nuzzled his ear; his warm breath against Raylan’s neck raised goosebumps down his body that Tim would then stroke down by running the palm of his hand down Raylan’s body.

Raylan could feel Tim’s length behind him with his stiff cock prodding at his lower back. Tim shifted positions so his cock slid between Raylan’s legs, head bumping up to his ball sac. The younger man reached around and took Raylan’s cock in his hand, this thumb rubbing the precum around the head, then pumping Raylan’s cock in his hand as if it were his own.

Raylan squeezed his thighs together, his breath beginning to quicken when Tim stopped. Raylan groaned. “Why?”

“I want to fuck you, Ray. Can I?” Tim whispered.

“God yes,” Raylan said. Then his brain started working. He’d not had enough time to breathe since that night with Winona. He’d never stopped to pick up new condoms. “Fuck, no. Shit,” Raylan said.

“What?” Tim asked, alarmed.

“Condoms,” Raylan said. “Can’t use the ones I have… one, erhm, broke last time.” He pressed his palm over his face, rubbing his eyes and his forehead.

“That night with Winona?” Tim asked. He started to pull away and Raylan reached back, stretching his zombie bite to grab Tim’s hip to hold him close.

“Don’t go,” Raylan said, turning his head to look back at Tim.

Tim kissed him slowly, nipping on his bottom lip. “You know, a sniper always has condoms in his rifle bag.”

Raylan’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah?”

“Keeps dirt and sand out of my barrel,” Tim said suggestively as he pulled away.

“All right, that sounded a little skeevy.”

Tim ignored him. “Lube?”

“Dopp kit in the bathroom.”

 

Raylan rested on his elbows when Tim strolled back into the room with lube and a condom, another towel, this one over his shoulder. Raylan watched Tim’s hard cock bob as he approached from Raylan’s side of the bed, tossing the sheet and blanket off Raylan and down to the foot of the bed.

Raylan raised an eyebrow and licked his lips. “This is how it’s going to be, then?”

Tim grinned quickly. “Oh yeah.”

He climbed onto the bed on his knees, knee-walking into position between Raylan’s legs. Stretching up over the cowboy, Tim swiped one of the pillows from his own side of the bed, and rested his haunches on his heels.

He tapped the side Raylan’s hip. “Lift up.”

Raylan planted his feet flat on either side of Tim and lifted his hips. Tim ran his fingers over Raylan’s abs tightened by his modified pelvic lift position and curled his fingers under the waistband of his boxers, working them past Raylan’s hard-on, over his ass, and down to where the split of his thighs tripped him up. He shoved a pillow under his hips, cramming the towel on top of the pillow, then smoothing it down the best he could.

“What’re you doin’?” Raylan asked, lowering his hips back to the bed.

“I’m anti-wet spot,” Tim said. He leaned back, pushed Raylan’s legs up and tugging the boxers further down his legs.

Raylan sighed. “Just give me these,” he said, curling his back to roll backward enough he could kick himself free of his boxers, not caring where they landed. He rolled back, wiggled down the bed a bit so his ass rode the edge of the pillow and let his legs fall open to either side of Tim. He felt exposed, to say the least, but Tim had tugged the meaty full part of that bottom lip of his under his top teeth and looked perplexed.

“So what now, hoss? Did you have a plan past….” Raylan spread his hands out and waved them, Vanna-Whiting the area of his hips and ass.

Tim grinned at him again. “Yeah, I just…,” he said, cocking his head to the side, “…needed to take it in?”  Tim rested his palms on Raylan’s knees, and then they slowly traveled a path up his thighs. “Just when I think all your height is in your torso, your legs get me every time.”

He shifted and crawled up over Raylan, covering the other man with his body, stopping to tongue one of Raylan’s nipples, then grazing it with his teeth, before finding his mouth and kissing him deeply. Tim rolled his hips to the side as they kissed and used his hand to line up their cocks. Then he let his weight sink down, covering Raylan with his body.

Tim’s tongue set a rhythm his hips followed. Raylan felt the arousal kick in his gut. With the combination of Tim’s cock against his, his tongue his in mouth, his smell surrounding him, Raylan wanted the man to lay him open. He circled Tim’s hips with his legs, let his hands crawl down to the sniper’s ass. He gripped Tim while he ground up against him.

Tim’s mouth broke the kiss, breathing raggedly.

“I thought you were gonna fuck me,” Raylan said, voice rougher than normal.

“I am.” He felt around for the lube where he’d tossed it along with the rubber, flicking it open.

“Here, Mr. Anti-wet spot.” Raylan took the bottle from Tim with his left hand. “Hold out your fingers and say when.”

“Palm first,” Tim said, leaning his weight on his left elbow and holding out his right palm.

Raylan gave the bottle a squeeze until Tim told him, “When.”

The sniper rolled his torso and hips off Raylan to the far side of the bed so he could reach between their bodies. Raylan he slid his right leg down to wrap his heel around the back of Tim’s calve, stabilizing their position and stretched his other leg out. Tim’s palm wound around their cocks pumping them together several times, twisting and spreading the lube around and between them. He eyes locked on Raylan’s face, so Raylan saw the way Tim’s tongue kept sneaking out to his bottom lip. Tim stretched up and kissed him quickly.

Tim wiggled his fingers for more lube. “Fingers this time.”

Raylan smirked but did as he said. He squeezed a generous dollop across the pads of the two fingers Tim offered him.

“I didn’t say when,” Tim said.

“I know where’s it’s goin’. Makes me a fair judge of what’s enough, don’t cha think?”

Tim’s lips lost the fight at holding back his laughter and he huffed out a laugh. “Guess so,” Tim said. He elbowed Raylan’s left leg out of his way. “Spread your leg wider on this side for me.”

Tim nudged Raylan’s his heavy balls out of his way, and swiped his fingers across Raylan’s ass, depositing the water-based gel between his cheeks. Raylan couldn’t help the reflexive tightening at the sudden intimacy either the cool lube or the presence of fingers. Raylan wasn’t sure which. And Tim must have known that, as he slowly circled and massaged the area around his hole the pad of his fingers.

“Sorry about the temperature,” Tim said.

Raylan didn’t give a rat’s ass about the temperature of the lube. He was more interested in the intentness of Tim’s eyes on his face.

Raylan grabbed the back of Tim’s head and pulled him closer for another kiss, stretching to close their height difference. He wouldn’t call what he was feeling frantic, but it was definitely working its way toward urgent. One of Tim’s fingers pressed into him, and Raylan tried to accommodate him, pushing out while his hips tried to move up to meet Tim.

“Shhh,” Tim said, pulling away from the kiss and finding Raylan’s ear with his lips. “Let me do it.”

Tim’s sucked on his earlobe while one finger slid in and out a couple times, twisting around and out to spread the lube around, Raylan guessed, then sliding back in feeling thicker. He’d added a finger, Raylan knew. It’s what he’d have done.

“Stoke your cock,” Tim ordered. “But don’t come.”

Raylan nodded and reached down to slowly slide his hand up and down his cock thinking about Tim’s long fingers inside him, and how Raylan thought on an average day, their length and grace hit him as downright indecent. To have Tim pumping them inside him as slowly in time as Raylan pulled on his cock shot spikes of arousal through Raylan, hitting him hard enough he had to bear down on Tim’s fingers and squeeze the base of his cock to stop himself from coming. He moaned and actually whined into Tim’s ear. He decided he’d deny the whine later.

“Fuck, you were made for this,” Tim muttered. “I want to try something.” His hot breath in his ear gave Raylan chills.

Short of breath himself, Raylan asked, “What?”

“When I tell you, I want you to squeeze my fingers as hard as you can,” Tim said. He lifted his head to look into Raylan’s eyes.

Raylan nodded.

“Do it. Now.”

Raylan tried once, but the temptation to want to squeeze, stop, then squeeze again was too much.

“No Ray, you need to hold it,” Tim said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Relax a sec.”

Tim kissed him full-on again, sliding their tongues together to either kill the time or distract Raylan. It worked.

“Now, Ray, squeeze and hold it as hard as you can,” Tim said.

Raylan tried again to grip Tim’s fingers, holding on hard as long as he could. “Oh god,” he moaned. “I had it, then just lost it.” The good part was as soon as he lost it, it felt like Tim’s fingers slid deeper and he’d started fingering him again, hooking up and pegging his prostate.

Tim grinned. “I know. S’posed to work like that. My fingers feel better after you do that, don’t they?”

Raylan rocked against Tim’s fingers, because they so did. Raylan had bottomed in the past but he’d never wanted it like he did now. “Goddamn it, Tim. Are you gonna play with me all night or fuck me?”

Tim’s face looked crestfallen. “Don’t look at me like I kicked your kitten. I’m fucking ready is all.” Raylan groaned, then squeezed Tim’s fingers again, trying the experiment again. He’d tell himself later that he’d done it again because he wanted to see the shocked, pleased look on Tim’s face, but he also liked the feeling when lost it around Tim’s fingers. And he couldn’t help groaning when his ass relaxed again against his will.

Raylan reached over and grabbed the condom.

“Pony up, hoss,” Raylan said. He tore the wrapper corner with his teeth, tossing the wrapper to the side.

Tim pulled his fingers from Raylan slowly, earning a grunting whine from Raylan, then he sank back on his heels between Raylan’s spread legs. Raylan handed him the condom, waited for Tim to roll the condom on, then handed him the lube.

Tim palmed some, slathered it to his wrapped cock with a couple twisting long strokes and squirted another dollop onto his fingers and swiped it across Raylan’s hole.

“Still ready?” Tim asked.

Raylan nodded at him.

Tim scooted up and wedged a knee on either side of the Raylan’s ass. He lined up the head of his cock against Raylan’s asshole. “Gimmee this leg,” Tim said, pulling Raylan’s left leg up so his ankle rested on Tim’s right shoulder.

“How this is gonna work is you’re gonna do exactly what you did before, only without my fingers, then when you lose control, tell me,” Tim said.

Raylan nodded. Tim reached down and grabbed Raylan’s right hand with his left, clasping their fingers together as Raylan had the night before. Raylan smiled, took a deep breath, and tried to flex his muscles the way he had when Tim’s fingers were inside him.

“Ugh. Doesn’t feel the same without your fingers,” Raylan said, taking breaths between sentences. “Harder to concentrate with nothin’ to hold onto.” Breath. “You’re such a bastard.” Harsh laugh, then breath. “I swear I never craved a man’s cock… oh jeez, this is hard… Tim… I don’t think I can… I’m… shit Tim.  Now?  I think now,” Raylan said. It was harder to tell the moment when everything fell loose, but apparently Tim picked up on his cues.

Because his cock slid into home like Raylan was pulling Tim into him, the tip bumping up against his prostate on stroke one. He groaned and arched his back. He tugged on their clasped hands, dropping his leg from Tim’s shoulder and pulling him down on top of him. Raylan wrapping his legs around his thighs.

Raylan squeezed Tim’s cock trying to hold it but quickly lost control and patience and wanted him to fuck him already. “Please, oh fuck.”

“Please what Ray?”

He let go of Tim’s hand so he could run both hands down to Tim’s ass, tugging at him. “Don’t be a tease and fuck me already.”

Tim rolled his hips, effective giving Raylan a short, grinding stroke. “I like it when you beg.”

“You’re such a controlling asshole, Gutterson,” Raylan muttered. He stretched his neck down, wincing at the angle from his bruises there, and kissed Tim. “I beg you Tim. Please fuck me,” Raylan said.

“You want my cock, do you?”

“I got your cock,” Raylan said, squeezing down on him once for good measure. “Now I’m begging you to fuck me with it already.”

“Since you asked so pretty…,” Tim said. But he started to work his hips. His arms slipping up under Raylan’s back, his hands gripping the middle of his wide shoulders from underneath him, for leverage. Raylan’s shoulders were wide enough for Tim to avoid the zombie bite and the strangulation bruising. Soon, Tim’s entire body was moving over him and Raylan understood the logic of the pillow, because most of the times the man sank home, he tagged Raylan’s sweet spot. Raylan curled his hips experimentally, taking all of Tim’s thrusts, but finding the best angle.

It wasn’t too long before the hammering stimulation caused precum to pool on Raylan’s abdomen from his weeping cock. He could feel an orgasm building. “Tim… I’m close.”

Tim slowed his thrusts and started to shift positions. “Do you need me to jerk—”

“Don’t move!” Raylan said, gripping Tim with his arms and legs to hold him in place.

Tim’s brows went from the flattened position of arousal to consternation, the dimple between them accentuated.

“You were nailing the sweet spot.”

“Ah gotcha.”

Tim pumped his hips again. “This still it?”

Raylan’s stomach tightened and he groaned. “Yeah, yeah, again.”

Tim fucked him, but watched his face this time, increasing his speed.

Raylan started to moan against his will, trying not to think of the sounds Alfred had made. “Now. Oh fuck, now,” Raylan said, his cock starting to ooze out cum beyond his ability to make sense of it. He hadn’t touched his cock since they’d started actually fucking and this was, bar none, the best orgasm he’d ever had. Even better than that first one when he and Boyd had finally figured out that their cocks were for more than pissing.

Raylan was still coming when Tim fell over the edge. Raylan could tell first in the way his body tightened up over him—Tim’s fingers dug into his shoulders, then he threw his head back, stretching out his long throat. Raylan wanted to lick the moles just to the side of Tim’s Adam’s apple, so he did. Then, Tim yelled out as his cock jerked repeatedly inside Raylan. Finally, Tim collapsed, his head on Raylan’s shoulder, his breath jagged gasps across Raylan’s throat.

The hot cum on Raylan’s stomach was pressed between them like a fall leaf ironed in sheets of wax paper. Raylan felt like he was still fluttering and spasming around Tim’s cock, still seated firmly up his ass. Tim’s body draped over his own while Raylan cradled him, idly running fingers through the fine hair that had grown down to touch the back of Tim’s neck. The sniper would probably get a haircut soon; he didn’t usually let it get this long. In the meantime, Raylan ran his fingers through it while they both caught their breath and took stock. Sex with Tim was probably the raunchiest, most satisfying and exposing experiences he’d ever had. And he kind of loved the feeling, even though it scared this shit out of him.

***

Tim was just walking through the door, back from a morning run the next morning when their phones both started ringing.

“Givens.”

“Gutterson.”

Raylan was mouthing, “Art,” to Tim, while he was whispering, “Rachel,” back to Raylan.  

“Art says to tell Rachel you got to go,” Raylan said. Tim hung up.

Art told Raylan to put the phone on speaker so he could bring them up to date together.  

“Boyd Crowder was found dead in his cell this morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's a big new off-putting tag added for this chapter - Major Character Death. 
> 
> Don't give up on me though: my Boyd is a bit like Rory Williams, if you watch Doctor Who, you'll sort out my meaning. If you're not a Whovian, then look at it this way, Boyd's just so fun to kill, you can't do it just once. I mean, really, where's the fun in that? 
> 
> Thanks to all for reading, for the kudos, and for the comments. I'm actually caught up on editing so I need to get ahead on writing before I post again. Soon? Either over the weekend or early next week.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger stuff: vague reference to off-page rape.

Boyd’s death shocked Raylan into silence, and Tim noticed.

“How’d he die?” Tim asked.

“Bled out. Stab wounds,” Art said on speaker. “Rachel is looking into it. Someone on the inside or with access to prison officials had to have gotten to him. We had him in isolation.”

“We just started to make the deal last night. Deposition isn’t twelve hours old,” Raylan said. “How’d it get to Bo so fast?”

“Again, Rachel is looking into it. The thing is—” Art started.

“We’ll be in as soon as we can. I want to see the—” Raylan said.

“No Raylan,” Art interrupted. “I need you and Tim down in Harlan—as soon as you can get rolling.”

“What?” Raylan said, his voice climbing. “I thought you wanted me in Kentucky to help you with the Boyd Crowder.”

“I do. Did. The thing is, your friend Tom Bergen called and state police requested you and Tim. Harlan’s burning. And they’ve got a nest of harpies on attack.

“A clamor,” Tim interrupted. “A group of harpies is a clamor. God, I love my job.”

“All right then, a _clamor_ of harpies. They need assistance from the preternatural branch—unless you two head down, we’ll have to see if someone from the preternatural units in Tennessee or Virginia can make the trip.”

“Shit no, don’t call Tennessee,” Raylan said. “I know that guy in Nashville, he’ll put ’em all down as soon as he gets one in his sights.”

“Aren’t they a protected species?” Tim asked.

“Therein lies the problem,” Art said. “Kentucky has a rattler species or two that are protected, but that doesn’t stop people from feeling pretty justified in taking a shovel or a shotgun to them if they find them in their gardens. Got a feeling, this could roll the same way for the harpies. The staties seem to realize the larger picture, but the local LEOs are trigger happy. Raylan, Boyd’s not going anywhere but the morgue. He’ll keep.”

“Wait a minute,” Tim said. “You said Harlan’s burning?”

“That’s the report,” Art said.

“Harpies aren’t known for handling fire,” Tim said. “In fact, I think they’re shy of it.”

“And finding harpies in Kentucky is like finding a crocodile in Alaska,” Raylan said. “They’re just not anywhere near native.”

“And that’s why we’re sending you two geniuses to look into the monsters while Rachel is checking out the death of the human witness,” Art said, then hung up.

Raylan rolled his eyes, then Tim grabbed his arm and dragged him into the shower because he was sweaty from his run and Raylan still smelled like cum.

 

A short fifteen minutes later, including a brief negotiation for morning sex that dissolved with Tim saying—“yes, I want a blowjob, but no we don’t have time,” they were dressing in what few clean clothes they had left.

Raylan turned around the room. “Tim, you know where my animator’s and executioner’s kits got to?”

“By the door,” Tim said. He’d been dragging their go-bags, among others, over to the door.

“Don’t see them.”

Tim was bent down tying his boot laces. “Yeah. I’ve been meaning to tell you…”

“What?”

“I got you new bags.”

“Kinda presumptive of you,” Raylan said, wondering if he needed to check Tim’s pushiness. In bed was one thing, replacing his weapon bags was… a little controlling. Raylan still felt oddly vulnerable to Tim that morning, wanting to pull the other marshal closer and push him away at the same time.

His attitude earned a flat, unimpressed look from the sniper. “You dragged your old bags onto the bed with you, then bled out a rank, biohazardous zombie out on top of both kits. LFD gave me the contents in garbage bags. I think they burned the bags themselves,” Tim said. “You can’t carry weapons in garbage bags, Raylan. The wooden stake already tore through the plastic by the time they handed it over.”

“Like anyone ever uses a stake,” Raylan grumbled.

“Still gotta carry it if you want to be a legal executioner. It’s the law.”

“Bad law. When did you manage to find the time to buy new bags?”

“When you were sleeping off the pain meds yesterday,” Tim replied, heading to the bathroom. “I’m up at 6:30 and you sleep late.”

“Thanks. Sorry I was an asshole.”

Tim’s laughter rang out of the bathroom.

“What?” Raylan asked, baffled. He never apologized for being an asshole, not even to Winona, and this was the reaction he got?

Tim strolled back into the room and up to Raylan, leaning up to kiss him once briefly. “It’s what I like about you. How about that?”

Raylan wondered why knowing that made him feel more settled, so he just said, “I’ll hold you to that.”

***

On the road, Raylan got busy in order not to look at the scenery flying by. Tim had flipped the lights on and was peeling down Interstate 75 at 90 mph. Raylan pointedly eyed the speedometer and got a smug smile in return.

“As long as you can manage it without rolling us over,” Raylan said.

“It helps if you don’t eat ice cream while you drive. Put your seatbelt on.”

Raylan did, then called the Frankfort’s sheriff’s office to find out if they had any findings in Arnet’s death. He learned the vampire had been bled out somehow, but the cause of termination—since he was already dead to begin with—was either the decapitation or the removal of his heart. Vampire forensics was a new science to humans. Since bruising patterns and other indicators of termination were so different in vampires than living humans, coroners were starting over with a new learning curve.

They did know that the DNA around the claw marks was canine, wolf to be exact—narrowing the field to werewolf.

“We’ll have to check with Rachel when we get back to Lexington to see who has a good feel for the local packs in the area,” Raylan said.

“They get a hit on the DNA itself or just the species genotype?” Tim asked.

“Too soon for a panel specific enough to use to ID a perp, and the odds there’s an exemplar in the system isn’t good,” Raylan said. Most criminal DNA ran against previous offenders to find lucky hits. If a werewolf broke a law serious enough to be incarcerated, then the odds were an execution warrant was served instead.

“Fun. Haven’t been varmint hunting in a while,” Tim said.

Raylan frowned. Some of the western states still had varmint laws on the books, allowing basically sanctioned hits against some weres if the price was right and the person paying was offended enough. Most of the cases fell under the jurisdiction of the Preternatural Branch of the Marshal service after the division was formed. But now and again, there were rumors of contracted bounty hunts allowed under the varmint laws that took out lycanthropes the legal system wouldn’t have marked for death.

“I’m kidding,” Tim said. “I stopped taking contracts when I joined the marshal’s service. If I hadn’t been taking on contract work, I wouldn’t have been in Nicaragua. Or here now.”

“So I did recruit you.”

“You could say that.”

***

Raylan and Tim arrived at the site of the latest fire by ten thirty.

“What is this place?” Tim said, parking the SUV on the perimeter of the other emergency vehicles and firetrucks.

“Vampire tourist trap. Bo Crowder reopened a closed mine, employed a bunch of vampires to run tours.”

Trooper Tom Bergen walked over to join them, carrying an LEO tablet.

“What do you know?” Raylan asked, reaching out to shake his hand.

“We had a major multicar pileup east of Corbin this morning about five in the morning. Started with a semi that jackknifed—not sure what caused it. Then, some time later, we think not all that long after the semi turned, a second collision occurred when motorists couldn’t stop in time. Not too hilly over there, but the fog in places is rough. We found the trailer torn to hell from the inside out. Cages inside—open. Fires started almost two hours later, laying a trail around Harlan County,” Bergen said. “We’ve got Division of Forestry firefighters and local departments working on at least a dozen small fires, trying to keep them from spreading.”

“Shit, Boyd was right,” Raylan said.

“What’s that?” the trooper asked.

“What direction did was the semi traveling in when it crashed?” Tim asked.

“West,” Bergen said.

“Art said they were harpies. How did you know that?” Tim asked.

“Cell phone picture from one of the drivers in the accident. Never seen anything like it. A woman with wings,” Bergen said, swiping his tablet, then handing it over for them. The picture was dark and Bergen was right—there’d been a solid layer of fog at the scene. But there was clearly a winged creature caught between climbing out of the semi and taking flight with a human-looking face and chest—breasts bare and pale in the dark background, made even more obvious with the harpy’s spread wings. Her avian foot extended from the inhuman bend of her tarsus—a third leg joint between her knee and her foot. Her talons gripped the side of the trailer with her three leg joints bent at acute degrees: poised to push off into flight.  

“Wow,” Raylan commented. “I’ve never seen one out of a textbook.”

Tim smiled. “Me either. Best part of the job.”

“If you two have never seen one, how do you think you can stop it?”

“It’s our job to know,” Tim said. “Harpies like to steal. They like to steal food best, but have been known take other things. Or people. Any missing persons or theft reports?”

“Not that we’ve noticed pattern. I’ll check with the locals just to be sure,” Bergen said. “We’ve been focused on the fires.”

“And oh. They also don’t take real well to anyone who’s killed a family member,” Tim said.

“What?” Bergen asked.

“They're like judgmental seagulls with great racks,” Tim said. “The one thing they don’t do is start fires.”

Bergen snorted. “Today they do.”

“Maybe,” Raylan said.

“You two don’t happen to know how fast do these things move?” Bergen said. “We’ve been trying to get ahead of them all morning.”

Raylan looked at him and shrugged. “Your guess is as good as ours. And eagle can fly what? Forty miles per hour? I’d say it’s comparable, I guess, unless some factor like wind speed or direction is slowing them down. Could be weak from captivity. Where was the first fire?”

“So far we’ve had a couple businesses lit up and a forest fire,” Bergen said. He swiped a couple times, pulling up a map to show them where they’d been fighting fires that day.

Tim hovered his finger over the glass and traced a path from the crash site on the map to the first fire. “What’s that? About sixty-five klicks as the crow flies to the first fire.”

“About forty miles,” Bergen confirmed. “Others spread around Harlan and the surrounding county.”

“And all of ’em in Harlan County,” Raylan noticed.  

“We were going to try to get ahead of them since they seem to be moving east,” Bergen said.

“I don’t think they’re going to roam too far past Harlan,” Raylan said. “If I’m reading this right, they started in Harlan before the accident and came back.”

“Why would that be?” Bergen asked.

“We think they’re victims of preternatural trafficking with a grudge against the local trafficker. That’s my guess. You agree Tim?” Raylan asked.

“Sounds about right.”

They heard Bergen sigh. “You’re not going to let us take them in, then.”

Raylan pressed his lips together. “Doubt it. This fire here, this vampire mine show is one of Bo Crowder’s businesses, right?” Raylan said.

Bergen confirmed with a nod.

“And the others?”

“We can check on the businesses. But the forest fire, not much around there. Just a couple buildings,” Bergen said.

“Wait a minute, one of those buildings happen to be a hunting cabin?” Raylan asked.

“Could have been,” Bergan said.

“Boyd’s daddy had one up that way when we were kids,” Raylan said. “We need to get ahold of the Harlan County property records and see if these were all Bo Crowder’s properties.”

Bergen nodded. “Harlan County PVA is online,” he said, swiping his tablet again, pulling up the site for the Property Valuation Administrator’s office. “Do we know Crowder’s DBA or do I need to look that up on the secretary of state’s web site?”

“You really think Crowder registered his businesses?” Raylan scoffed.

“If he’s trying to run enough legit businesses to launder money, then he actually might have,” Tim said, pulling a small notebook out of his back pocket. Raylan’s eyes caught on his pants—they were styled similarly to military BDUs, pockets all over the place but too damn loose. Shame.

Bergen ran down the property owners and business filings while Tim took notes. Then they made a list of Bo’s known properties.

“You think they’re trying to find his daytime resting place and burn him out?” Tim asked.

“Could be.” Raylan nodded, dragging the tips of his fingers across his chin, rubbing his goatee. He needed to trim it. 

“How’d they know where all Bo’s properties are?” Tim asked. “If they’ve been riding around in cages for god knows how long or worse. It’s not like they’re looking Bo up online.”

Raylan nodded, pursing his lips. “Fair point. So where haven’t they hit?”

Tim ran down his notes. “There’s the couple mining operations we could get a line on. A restaurant/bar—looks like that one downtown where Johnny Crowder works. And another vampire tourist draw—a nighttime zipline tour.”

“Do people actually pay for to be strapped into a rig, tossed down a mountain in the middle of the night by vampires?” Raylan asked.

“Surprisingly yes. Big draw around Halloween. Like a spookhouse with glow-in-the-dark ziplines,” Bergen said. “We’re going to send an aviation unit up to try to spot the next fire and head them off.”

Tim’s eyes lit up. “Tactical or rescue unit?”

Bergen had the grace to look shamefaced. “Tactical.”

“That’s a problem,” Raylan said. “It’s not just that they’re protected as a species, and they’re potential witnesses in an ongoing RICO case. Tom, we need them alive.”

“Shit,” Bergen said. “How’re you going to accomplish that?”

“I think we’ll start with talking, and then if that doesn’t work, a tranq gun and silver cuffs. Then more talking. But we’re hoping it won’t come to that,” Raylan said.

Tim started to say something, but Raylan put a hand on his shoulder and Tim nodded.

“You mind if we go up with the aviation unit?” Tim asked.

***

 Raylan and Tim suited up and got their weapons in order while they waited for the helicopter.

“You don’t actually have tranqs.”

“Hell no,” Raylan said. “You know as well as I do that most preternatural beings metabolize the drugs faster than it can slow them down.”

“But Bergen didn’t,” Tim said.

“Appears not.”

“Do you have a plan for taking them in?” Tim said.

“I thought we’d make a reasonable offer and see where that takes us,” Raylan said.

“And if they’re not inclined to listen?”

“I guess that all depends on if they’re doing all this to get back at Bo because he pissed them off,” Raylan said.

“Or?” Tim asked.

“Or they’re only hunting him down instinctually because he killed a family member—which means two things,” Raylan said.

“We’ll have to put them down, anyway,” Tim finished.

“And Bo’s responsible for killing Boyd,” Raylan said.

***

Flying over Bo’s Night Fright Zipline Tour, Raylan felt something pop with his necromancy—only it didn’t feel dead like a zombie or a vampire. The energy was warmer somehow.

“There,” Raylan said into the headset. “We need to put down there.”

The pilot and the state police special response team trooper riding shotgun exchanged shared a look.

“Deputy, we’re not a shuttle service,” the pilot replied. “I know Trooper Bergen seems to think you have some special touch with the monsters, but there’s no sign of them on this property.”

“That may be so, but I’m telling you there’s something there,” Raylan said.

After some convincing, the pilot dropped Raylan and Tim in the parking lot of the tour office. Raylan called Bergan and asked for backup.

“Raylan, we’re stretched thin at the moment,” Bergen said. “We’re covering a lot of ground this morning.”

“I know. But there’s something up this hill. I can feel it,” Raylan said. “There’s something there.”

Bergen agreed to see if one of the locals could send a couple cars out.

“You know, you said that in Miami before the warehouse collapsed, too,” Tim said.

“You mean before you blew it up,” Raylan corrected.

Tim shrugged. “There wasn’t anything there but vampire mojo. Lots of vampires around here who we’re not looking into at the moment,” Tim said.

Raylan started off in the direction of the surrounding woods with Tim following behind. “This doesn’t feel like death magic. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Raylan stopped to wait for Tim to reply.

“Why’re we stopping?” Tim said. He wasn’t paying attention to Raylan though, his attention was on the woods around them.

“You’re okay with this?”

Tim finally looked at him. “If you say the monster’s that way, then I believe you—the monster’s that way.”

Raylan felt inordinately pleased, and turned to lead them into the woods, feeling his way up side of the mountain ridge, letting the nagging presence pushing at his necromancy guide him. With no established trail, the terrain wasn’t exactly even—covered in fall leaves, fallen branches and trees here and there, and other growth.

They walked in silence, slowly moving up. Raylan could hear Tim’s measured steps behind him. When he looked back a couple times, his partner had that look he did the night he’d raised Bowman. Raylan might be following the buzz in his head, but Tim’s hyper-focus spread out to the woods around them.

Raylan was just about to say that the buzz in his head felt heavier, when Tim put a hand on his shoulder. He turned back and Tim held up one finger, then two fingers to his eyes, then pointed ahead of them. “Fifty meters, one o’clock, branch.” Tim’s voice was barely loud enough for Raylan to make out the words.

“How do you want to—”

“Shit,” Tim said, whipping his head around to the left at something he’d heard—a short pattern of high chirps. “They’re cooperative hunters.”

With Tim scanning for the harpy on his left, and Raylan eyeing the one ahead of them, they never saw the harpy at their six stoop toward them, until the talons clawed at Raylan’s shoulders, knocking him down to the ground, the harpy on top of him.

She flapped her wings, sweeping Tim into the air and off his feet.

The buzz in Raylan’s head found form. _“Necromancer.”_

The first word hurt, and he yelled out, grabbing his head, thinking, _“What the fuck?”_

He heard Tim attempt to identify them as marshals, then fire off a shot behind him when the voice in his head tried again, this time with less weight, feeling like it wasn’t as loud, but still loud enough to resonate in his head over Tim’s gunfire.

_“No need for profanity, Necromancer.”_

_“Who the hell are you? Where are you?”_

_“Quiet your mate before we kill him,”_ the voice said.

_“Mate?”_ Raylan reeled. _“You mean Tim? Good luck with that.”_ Raylan bucked, knocking the harpy off his back, rolling and drawing his weapon on her.

Tim had found his footing when Raylan went down.

“US Marshals, stand down,” he yelled, as he drew his gun on the harpy that had ridden Raylan to the ground when the source of the chirping to his left attacked. His shot went wild and the harpy knocked him on his side. Tim curled into a ball as the harpy who felled him approached on foot until she was close enough he could aim a solid, damaging kick at what he guessed was her knee. She screamed a barrage of what he guessed was foul language at him and beat her wings, rising up a good four feet off the ground. Tim drew his weapon.

“Back the fuck down,” Tim yelled. “We’re deputies with the US Marshals service.”

Tim was getting ready to aim again when Raylan grabbed his head in his hands, bending over and moaning.

 

“ _Mis queridos pajaritos, stop. Free the necromancer or his mate will kill you.”_

The voice in Raylan’s head had grown again in intensity again. The loudness felt like the mother of all migraines throbbing with each word. Raylan gagged and threw up on the leaves at his feet.

Apparently, whatever was sending Raylan thoughts was also talking to the harpies, only a lot louder. And the harpies were listening because they suddenly hovered, then retreated.

_“¡Pajaritos! Vos vienen a mí ahora.”_

Raylan groaned again, still holding his head. The harpy who had attacked Tim flew in the direction of the first harpy he’d pointed out to Raylan, perched in the tree ahead of them.

Tim’s hand was on Raylan’s back, rubbing circles.

“Raylan, are you all right?” Tim asked.

The voice softened again. _“Necromancer. Lo siento. I’m sorry. Mis queridos arpías don’t have your magic. They need more… what is the word? Noise?”_

_“Volume?”_ Raylan thought.

_“Yesss. Gracias. More volume to hear me.”_

Tim nudged Raylan a few feet away from his vomit, then crouched down in front of him. “Raylan, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong? Talk to me, please.”

“Whatever just told them to stop, called them to it in my head,” Raylan said. “I can hear it talking to me in my head.”

Again, the words were much softer, sliding across his head instead of slamming into him as they had before.

_“Por favor, Necromancer. Come to me and bring your policía, your mate.”_

“Telepathic?”

“Seems so.” Raylan stood up straight, looking around, finding his hat and placing it back on his head. He grabbed his executioner’s bag from where it’d fallen and pulled out a bottle of water, taking a swig to wash out his mouth. He spit the water on the ground.

“Is it hurting you?” Tim’s voice shaped the words in sharp edges. He’d moved in closer to Raylan.

“I’m fine,” Raylan said, leaning into Tim. “Not hurting me now. I think it was trying to get the… volume right? It called the harpies. They listen to it and obey.”

“Did the harpies talk to you?”

Raylan shook his head. “No, not them. Just the voice. But it wants me to visit. And bring… um, you.” Raylan’s eyes darted to Tim, then away. “Knows you’re law enforcement and I’m a necromancer.”

“Huh. Well, let’s go see what has the authority to call off the chicken ladies.”

***

Raylan and Tim followed the harpies. Every time they would get close to one, it would take off again leading them another thirty or so feet—as if they were informally escorting them.

“I wonder if they can talk,” Tim said. “I thought the one I kicked cussed me out, but now I’m not sure.”

“I don’t know. They’re faces are anthropomorphic. But the voice talked to them in Spanish,” Raylan said.

Finally, the harpies led them down around a bend to a rock formation.

Lounging against the rocks was a hobbled dragon. The bulk of its black body stood about eight feet tall, including its curved-over neck, but not accounting for a long tail that was curled around behind it. Massive wings of inky midnight blue were at rest but not folded up. Raylan could see silver adorning the creature’s body, studding the wings. He didn’t think it was meant to be pretty, but rather to weaken the dragon.

“Fuck, I love my job,” Tim gritted out quietly.

Raylan pulled out his badge, holding it up. “Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens.  I take it you’re who’s been talking to me?”

_“Necromancer. You are policia too. I did not notice.”_

“Yes. This is my partner, Deputy Tim Gutterson,” Raylan said. “Tim, can you hear it?”

“No, what’s it’s saying?”

_“I am called Nahtoo. Your mate can’t hear me. You hear me because of your power, Necromancer.”_

“Its name is Nahtoo. It says my necromancy allows it to communicate with me.”

“Nahtoo, are you the one who’s been setting the fires?” Tim asked.

_“Ah, si. The vampire master here… is mal, bad.”_

“Bo Crowder?

_“Si. He held us. No honor. Violó a mis queridos pajaritos.”_

“What?” Tim asked.

“Yes, Bo held them. Violated… raped, maybe… the harpies.”

“Jesus. No wonder they’re seeking revenge. I guess that means Bo didn’t off Boyd.”

“Maybe.”

_“And then he sends us to worse monsters.”_

“Nahtoo says they were going to somewhere worse.”

“Preternatural trafficking.”

“Can the harpies talk?”

_“Si, but will not to you. You are men. They are… broken.”_

“All right. Nahtoo says the harpies don’t take kindly to men at the moment.”

“Maybe Rachel can get somewhere with them,” Tim said.

“Nahtoo. I notice you have silver cuffs and bolts in your wings.”

_“Torture. Binding. As long as I wear them, I am… only allowed this form.”_

“Oh Jesus Tim, Nahtoo’s a shifter… or were. You got those bolt cutters we used for Gary’s coffin on in your kit?”

“I do,” Tim said. “Never leave home without them.”

“Nahtoo, would you allow Tim to cut you free of the silver?”

_“Your mate… hides his heart but it is good. I would be in his debt. Sí, por favor.”_

“Nahtoo says okay.”

Raylan felt laughter tickle his mind. _“You hide your heart too, Necromancer.”_

“You are nosy for a dragon.”

“What did it tell you?”

“You don’t want to know.”

_“But he does, Necromancer.”_

_“Stop that,”_ Raylan thought.

 

While Tim got to work with his bolt cutters, Raylan called Art.

“We’ve got four victims of preternatural tracking,” Raylan said. “I think they could be witnesses against Bo Crowder. The harpies… they’re pretty ticked off at him. The dragon seems a little more… even-tempered about it. Well, except for the fire-setting.”

“What—did you say dragon?” Art said.

“Well, shifter. They kept it stuck in dragon form with silver cuffs and bolts. Tim’s working on cutting them off now,” Raylan said.

“Why would anyone do that?” Art said.

“If the buyer wants a dragon…” Raylan started.

Art sighed.

“Thing is, we need transport out of Harlan ay-sap,” Raylan said, stretching out the acronym ASAP for emphasis. “And maybe a female deputy. Preferably Rachel. They’ve been abused, Art. I don’t want to leave any of them with the locals. They’ve been lighting up Bo Crowder’s businesses all morning; the locals are going to want their justice.”

“It’d be at least three hours if I send transpo. London’d be a lot faster, but they’re pretty pissed off about the way their van smelled after last time you used it,” Art said. “We had to pay professional cleaners out of the Lexington office.”

“Pussies,” Raylan muttered as Art chuckled at him.

“Thing is Art, they already upset one very big apple cart on the highway this morning,” Raylan said, explaining about the jackknifed semi. “Don’t want to spook them and I got this feeling we should get them out of Harlan County before Bo Crowder wakes up. Since he’s a master vampire, that’ll be before dark. I just don’t know how long.”

“You think they’ll testify against Bo Crowder?” Art said.

“I think so. Dragon’s articulate,” Raylan said. “Don’t know the whole story yet, but it’s telepathic so who knows what else it picked up along the way? Maybe we’ll get some insight on the network Boyd started to give us.”

“All right, I’ll call Rachel,” Art said.

“Any news on Boyd’s murder?” Raylan said, turning away from Tim and the dragon.  

“Nothing on the security cameras. Shank found in the cell with Boyd’s prints,” Art said.

Raylan’s brows furrowed. “Self-inflicted or from fighting it off,” Raylan asked.

“Hard to tell,” Art said. “We’ll have to see what comes of the autopsy. Give us about four hours for the transpo.”

“That’ll be running it closer than I’d like,” Raylan said. “But if we can get them clear of Harlan at least an hour or two before dusk, we should be okay.”

Raylan turned back to Tim and Nahtoo. The harpies had come closer and were circled around watching Tim cut the cuffs away from the dragon.

“Nahtoo, are you hearing the conversation I’m having with my boss?”

_“Sí.”_

“We want to get you out of town before dark, put you under the protection of the US marshals service. would the harpies be willing to ride in a transport van?”

_“I will ask. Protect yourself.”_

Raylan mentally bore down, concentrating hard on nothing, and the words she sent out to the harpies hurt less. 

Raylan told Art where to meet them. “We’ll hole up. I still need to check in with Tom Bergen and tell him the situation is contained. The KSP were running an extensive hunt when we got here… they didn’t want to put us down here and might not take too well to us spiriting away their quarry.”

“Tough shit. Play the Federal Preternatural Division card if you have to,” Art said.  

Tim had cut Nahtoo free of the neck cuff and was finishing up on the second leg shackle, ready to move on to the wing bolts. Raylan watched one of the harpies move closer to Tim. It looked like she was smelling him. Knowing his lover, Tim had to be aware of what the creature was doing, but he was ignoring her.

“Raylan, I need help with the bolts. I don’t want to cut something I shouldn’t,” Tim said.

Raylan ended his call with Art and moved closer to examine the first bolt in the wing membrane. The skin of the wing was like a thin, smooth leather that was warm to the touch. Nahtoo had been soaking in the late fall sun when it broke through the tree canopy above. He wondered if dragon shifters were warm- or cold-blooded in their were forms.

“Does it hurt if I pull the wing away from the bolt?”

_“Sí, but I will bear it to be free.”_

“Nahtoo, there’s not any truth to the rumor that dragon blood will melt iron is there? You know, before I hold your wing with my bare hands while Tim here uses a sharp implement.”

“You didn’t think to ask that before I went after the cuffs,” Tim complained. Another harpy had crept closer. This one squatted down at Nahtoo’s feet and tucked her wings in close, making them seem like they’d wrapped around her.

“Knew you wouldn’t come close to cutting skin on the cuffs. But the wing around the bolts looks like it’s never healed.”

_“My blood will not hurt you.”_

“Nahtoo says the blood won’t hurt,” Raylan told Tim. “Any idea how long you’ve had these bolts in?”

_“What year is it now?”_

“Shit,” Raylan whispered. “It’s late September, 2016.”

Tim looked horrified, guessing at the half of the conversation he couldn’t hear.

_“They bound me before they sent me from my home in South America in 2014.”_

“Two years, Tim.”

“I’m sorry.” Tim pressed a hand against the warm skin on the dragon’s neck. The third harpy joined them, her attention intent on Tim’s hand against Nahtoo’s neck.

_“What’s with the harpies? I thought they didn’t like men,”_ Raylan thought to Nahtoo. He was afraid if he said it aloud, he’d insult them or chase them off.

_“They like your mate.”_

_“He’s likeable. His name is Tim.”_

But when Nahtoo thought it back to him, it sounded like “Teem.”

_“They like that Tim would rather kill them than fuck them. They know what to do with that.”_

 

Raylan held onto the membrane of Nahtoo’s wing, pressing on the underside of the first bolt so Tim could wedge the blades of the cutter head under the top knob of the bolt to cut the stem. There were four bolts in each wing along the bottom edges of the membrane between the span of the finger bones.

“Can you even fly with these in?” Tim asked.

_“No, mis pajaritos carried me to freedom.”_

“The harpies are strong enough to carry a dragon,” Raylan translated.

When Tim cut the last bolt free, they stood back.

The dragon stretched its blue-black wings wide, raised its head straightening out its long neck to its full height and then shuddered, and began shifting. A harsh cry rended the quiet woods as the wing finger bones shrank into human hands, arms morphing into long limbs. Scales lining a chest and abdomen shuddered, then melted into tawny skin covering a small, round breasts with a taut, flat stomach and pelvic region.

She was thinly hipped for a woman, but her legs were long. 

“Shiiiit,” Tim muttered, covering his eyes. “Nahtoo’s a she.”

“That she is,” Raylan said, eyes on the changing woman, rapt.

“Pervert,” Tim said, nudging him. “Ever hear of privacy?”

“You know you want to watch her shift.”

“I do,” Tim said. “But I don’t want to stand here and stare at her cans to get to see it.”

Her body finished its popping and morphing into a long-limbed woman, who stood at least an inch taller than Tim in her bare feet. The crown of ebony feathers, tendrils or whiskers—Raylan wasn’t sure what they’d been when she was in dragon form—now turned to long dark hair. Nahtoo stood with her head down, hair curtaining her face on either side. The harpies were chattering excitedly to each other in another language—Greek maybe? Raylan wasn’t sure.

Tim emptied his jacket pockets, shoving contents into other pockets, then pulled his Marshals jacket off, moving behind Nahtoo to drape it over her shoulders.

“Gracias,” she whispered, her voice raspy. She slipped her arms into the jacket and wrapped it around her.

Tim picked up his bolt cutters, putting them into his kit, and pulled a bottled water from his bag. He tossed several protein bars onto the ground. While he handed the water to Nahtoo, the harpies crept forward stealing the bars away. Raylan watched his lover work his lips to keep his face stern while he fought a smile.

Nahtoo lifted her head and opened eyes that were an inhuman shade of gold with vertical-slit pupils.

“Whoa,” Raylan said. “Nahtoo, what color are your human eyes?”

She swallowed a sip of water. “Green.”

“Uhh...” Raylan said, unsure how to proceed.

“Necromancer. I can’t read your mind in human form—”

“Really?” Raylan said. “How does that—”

“Tell me, Necromancer.”

“I think they kept you in were form for so long that your eyes are… stuck,” Raylan explained. “There’ve been some cases where lycanthropes who stayed in their shifted form for long periods of time became unable shift their eyes back to fully human.”

“They’re gold with cat-eye pupils,” Tim said.

She nodded at Tim, seeming to think about it for a moment before deciding. “It is better than never walking as human again. If they change back, it will be okay. If they never change back, that will be okay too.”

“They’re stunning,” Tim said.

“You chose well Necromancer,” she said, zipping Tim’s jacket around her.

Tim’s eyebrows furrowed causing the dimple in his forehead to deepen. His eyes traveled back and forth  between Raylan and Nahtoo.

“How so?” Raylan said.

“A kind mate is a gift,” she said sadly, then turned away from them to chatter with the harpies.

“Mate?” Tim said. “That supposed to be me?”

“Was a surprise to me, too.”

“Was?”

“She calls you that.”

“Mate, huh?”

“Seems so.”

“What superpower goes with being a necromancer’s mate, I wonder.”

“A lot dirty laundry and dead chickens.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * trigger warning - inference to rape

Raylan parked Tim’s SUV in one of the permit spots on Pleasant Stone Street that ran along the backside of the courthouse. Rachel and Tim were leading the witnesses through the back entrance of the building. Vasquez was supposed to be waiting upstairs in the US Marshals Office.

They’d decided they’d wait Art and Rachel out in the woods north of Bo’s zipline tour office. The rocky area the dragon had originally chosen was reasonably defendable. Since Tim’s SUV was still parked at Bo’s vampire mine, they didn’t even have their own transportation or access to Tim’s backup weapon stash. They had only the weapons they’d carried in with them and didn’t want to take their chances with the locals if Nahtoo and the harpies could roll over on Bo and the larger vampire network. Some of the sheriff deputies had been cagey the week before when it came to sharing information about their county master vampire.

 

“What are they sitting on?” Raylan asked Rachel, watching the three harpies perched around one side of the conference room from Raylan’s desk. The women weren’t perched in the rolling chairs that normally surrounded the table. He supposed that seemed reasonable. He couldn’t imagine that furniture designed for humans would be all that comfortable for them.

“We couldn’t find any benches in the courthouse that don’t have backs to them,” Rachel said. “So Tim dragged in paper boxes from the supply closet and stacked them in threes.”

The harpies were chattering among themselves, sometimes saying something to Nahtoo. Vasquez was benched in Art’s office waiting for someone Rachel had called in to represent their witnesses, the equivalent of a public defender for preternatural victims, as well as someone from the classical studies department at the university who could hopefully translate either the Latin or Greek the harpies spoke. The harpies knew some English and Spanish and Nahtoo could communicate with them in Spanish, but Vasquez said they needed an impartial translator. Nahtoo had breathed too much fire around Harlan County that morning to be considered impartial.

Art had ordered in food, but the harpies kept trying to take what was on his plate. He’d grumpily retreated to his office with his pizza to join Vasquez. Tim didn’t have that problem. He’d just grab another slice of pizza, take a bite, and drop it onto his plate. Then, he’d turn to ask Nahtoo something while one of the harpies lifted the pizza from his plate.

“They like Tim,” Raylan said.

“Oh, they _really_ do,” Rachel said.

Raylan’s face tightened.

“Not like that,” she said, laughing at him.

“I didn’t think that. They’re not planning to try to… eat him or steal him, are they?” Raylan asked.

“No,” Rachel replied, rolling her eyes. “The feeling is more like… fondness and curiosity. Respect. I could see them wanting to fight with him, but more out of sport than anything else.”

“Did you get anything from them on the way up?” Raylan asked.

Rachel frowned. “Yes.”

“And?”

“They’ve been in captivity for decades,” she said. “And Nahtoo was sold into slavery out of Brazil by her husband.”

“Shit.”

“Arranged marriage to form a business alliance. Her husband didn’t appreciate finding out once he’d married her that his wife was a were who could fry him whenever she was unhappy,” Rachel said. “Art did a run and legally, she’s dead. We think he faked her death.”

“Why did her family allow it? Dragon lycanthropy is rare. I thought most were born dragons.”

“She got it from her mother’s side. She is the only child of that union. Mother deceased and father remarried,” Rachel said. “Her ‘affliction’ made her both the family secret and black sheep.”

“How’d she end up here?”

“In through Miami. Harpies were already there when she came in. They’d been held by a… um, a vampire in the Everglades—like exotic pets, before the traffickers started moving them north,” Rachel said.

“What vampire?” Raylan gritted out. He had a bad feeling he knew.

Rachel winced. “Bucks.”

She had an uncomfortable emotion playing prominently across her face that Raylan recognized from his mama’s or Aunt Helen’s faces growing up: fear of angering Arlo when he was riding the tipping point. Raylan felt a stab of guilt and tried to dial it down emotionally, closing his eyes a second and willing himself to relax.

“How come Dan never recovered them when they seized Bucks’ assets?”

“I’m not sure Raylan,” Rachel said. “She’s got some knowledge of the Miami end of the network Boyd put us onto.”

“Speaking of, what did you find on Boyd this morning?” Raylan asked.

“Raylan, my gut on this is that he killed himself,” Rachel said.

Again, she’d chosen her words carefully.  

Raylan shook his head. He wasn’t his daddy, and he wasn’t going to blow up at her just because he wasn’t getting his way. “No way Boyd Crowder took his own life,” Raylan said, rejecting the theory. “Suicide would be the antithesis of his Boyd-centric way of life.”

“That may be so, but that’s where I’d put my money.”

***

The harpies turned out to have names.

Dr. Louis—“just call me Louie”—Fane from the University of Kentucky was more excited about the existence of the harpies and what they’d been part of 3,000 years prior than what they had to tell Vasquez about their current state of affairs. It also turned out Tim and Raylan hadn’t needed to worry about the Harlan LEOs getting trigger happy. The harpies were immortal creatures. They could be tortured, maimed, and probably grievously harmed, but not killed.  

Louie was more interested in introducing the marshals and their attorney, Catherine Maison-Gillette, to them formally than he was in relaying the information to the court reporter. Vasquez had to make Louie spell out their names three times for the court reporter. Catherine finally hushed Vasquez.

“They’re my clients AUSA Vasquez. I have a right to know their history,” Catherine said.

“Aello’s name is like Jell-O, minus the ‘J’,” Louie said, waving to the harpy closest to Tim. “In myth, she’s a bad girl. Known for abduction and torture.” The professor sounded more proud than concerned about her reputation.

“Ocypete sounds like, ‘Oh, sip a dee’,” Louie said, “she’s the fastest of the sisters.”

He stopped suddenly and turned to them, asking a question in Latin. They talked back and forth animatedly for a moment. 

“Oh! They _are_ sisters,” Louie said. “I knew it,” he muttered under his breath. Raylan was surprised he didn’t fist pump the air in front of him.

“Dr. Fane—” Vasquez attempted to interject.    

“And this is Celaeno,” Louie said, waving a hand to the harpy with the darkest feathers. The rest had steely gray feathers, but Celaeno’s were closer to black. “Her name sounds a lot like ‘Kell on no’.”  Louie was quiet a moment. “Celaeno is called the ‘dark one’ and is possibly the most frightening of the three sisters. According to myth, she’s known as a prophetess.”  

“What’s so scary about that?” Vasquez asked.

Louie raised his eyebrows. “Nothing is more frightening than knowing your fate—or knowing just enough about it cast doubt on every decision you ever make again.”

***

Vasquez spent the evening brokering a deal with Nahtoo and the harpy sisters through Catherine and Louie. He wanted them to testify against Bo Crowder first. Along with the physical evidence collected from the tractor trailer and Boyd Crowder’s deposition, Vasquez thought he would have enough to justify an execution warrant for the Harlan County master. They could then put the women in protective custody.

The marshals would then move on to proving their witnesses’ allegations of RICO crimes against other vampires in Miami network.

Before they reached the point when the attorneys had to wade through some of the more sensitive allegations against Bo dealing with his physical and sexual abuse of the witnesses, Rachel and Catherine booted all of the men from the room including Vasquez, except for Louie who was needed for translation, to go over the details of what Bo had done to them and determine what they could take before a judge, if any of it. Even in cases of preternatural execution warrant petitions, the burden was unfairly weighted on the victim of sexual violence.

Rachel called for a break when she pulled conference door shut behind her, escorting a shaken Dr. Fane from the room. She pointed him in the direction of the office coffee machine.

Raylan watched Louie fumble with a marshals office glass mug, filling it, then dropping and catching it with a level of grace that was entirely inhuman. The closer Raylan watched, the more he was convinced Louie was probably a lycanthrope. He just didn’t know what flavor.

The professor was sipping bad coffee when Raylan joined him.

“Bad?” Raylan asked. He wasn’t talking about the coffee.

“I came in here wanting to help, then saw them… realized who they were and couldn’t help thinking about what they’d do for my career—working with them, studying them, papers, books,” Louie said, swallowing. “Tenure."

“You’re not going to be able to do that,” Raylan said. “Not anytime soon, anyway.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Louie said. “He… this Crowder… was brutal. Listening to them, I realized I just wanted to use them the same way all these vampires have.” The man shuddered.

“They’re going to need to go into witness protection for a while, but not forever,” Raylan said. “They’re immortal. WITSEC isn’t exactly equipped to protect the full spectrum of preternatural creatures as it is. Especially when some of those people are better at protecting themselves than we are at protecting them.”

“Where are you going to put them?”

“I was going to ask if you had any ideas about that,” Raylan said. “It’s not something we’d normally ask, but the situation isn’t normal. But I don’t think it would be a bad thing for them to have someone on their side who understood their place in the world.”

“I have an idea,” Louie said.

“I thought you might.”

***

Vasquez wrapped up for the night and Art sent them home with an order to be back in the office early.

“Head out for the night. We’ll secure the witnesses. Vasquez wants to go before Rearden tomorrow for Bo’s execution warrant. He’s got you two scheduled for a meeting at eight,” Art said.

Back in their room, Raylan ducked into the shower first while Tim grabbed his laptop and a beer.

Raylan took his time in the bathroom, finally trimming his goatee for the first time a week. He climbed into the shower shifting under the spray to find the perfect angle that didn’t hammer his zombie bite for the hotel’s endless stream of hot water to beat the muscles in his back into a lax kind of submission. He redid the bandage and took his antibiotics, finding them in his go-bag where Tim had stuffed them this morning.

He strolled into the suite naked to look for a pair of boxers from his dwindling supply of clean clothes. They really needed to make some time to either do their laundry or drop it off somewhere. Raylan rifled through the drawer under the pretense of finding the right pair, but in reality, he just wanted to see if Tim’s eyes were on him.

They were.

“You going next?” Raylan said. He bent down and stepped into blue-and-white striped boxers.

“Naw,” Tim said. “I’m going to run in the mornin’. I’ll shower after.”

Raylan worried about what that meant in terms of the odds of him getting lucky that night. Then, he decided he didn’t care; he’d make his own luck.

He took Tim’s laptop from him. “Give me this,” Raylan said, putting it on the table between their room and the kitchen.

“But I’m not done—” Tim said.

“Think you are.”

“Ah… looks like I’m done.”

Raylan sank down on his knees in front of Tim, nudging his feet further apart, and lining himself up close to the couch. He leaned in and tugged Tim to him by the front of his shirt, kissing him soundly. Tim shifted his head, deepening the kiss and Raylan encouraged it, sliding their tongues against each other. His hands slipped down to Tim’s waist and went for his belt.

“Whoa there, wait a sec,” Tim said, sitting back and pushing Raylan’s hands away.

Raylan rose to his feet. He knew he must have looked confused at best, hurt at worst.

Tim followed him, standing and stretching up to kiss him once softly. “It’s not that. I’ve got… well, I’ll show you,” he said. Tim unbuckled the tongue of his belt. He pushed on the front of the buckle, and it slipped out revealing a two-and-a-half-inch blade. The buckle itself served as the handle.

“Silver?”

“Of course.” Tim pulled his belt free of the loops on his pants and reattached the buckle to the belt showing Raylan how it worked.

Raylan pulled Tim toward the bed, and then corralled him to the side of the bed, the back of the sniper’s knees against the bed’s edge. “Come on. Take these off before we get started again,” Raylan said, tugging Tim’s BDUs and boxers down just past his knees.

Tim popped his eyebrows at Raylan once. “Forgot about the boots, didn’t ya?”

Raylan pressed his palm to the middle of Tim’s chest and pushed him back onto the bed. “Lay down. Didn’t forget,” he said.

Tim propped himself up on his elbows and watched Raylan untie the laces on his boots, tugging off his boots, then socks, tossing them away to the floor. Then he peeled Tim’s pants free, tugging Tim’s feet over to one corner, dragging Tim diagonal across the bed.

“Scoot up the bed for me,” Raylan said. “But aim for that corner over there.”

Tim tipped his head back to check out what corner Raylan was talking about, then shrugged and wiggled back up the bed. Raylan crawled up the bed over him. He kissed Tim first, let his hand wrap around his half-hard cock, stroking it a couple times.

“You turned me down this morning,” Raylan said.

“We were short on time.”

“Mhm-mmm. Not now.”

Raylan moved away from Tim and settled on the bed on his stomach, with Tim’s legs spread-eagle around his head, idly stroking Tim’s cock. Before Tim, Raylan could count the men he’d gone down on with one hand, with only his fingers—and most of them were one-offs. It wasn’t that he disliked oral sex. Raylan loved receiving it, but in the past a blow job was a kind of currency—a trade for equal or greater sex acts. With Tim though, making him moan or getting him off made him feel proud, not unlike the first time he’d hit a base run or caught a fly ball from center field. Raylan supposed there was a good reason sex was analogous with baseball.

Tim was hard now, while Raylan considered where he wanted to go next. He thought about what he liked and what he used to wish Winona would do when they were married, he thought about how Tim had touched him, and he thought about what Tim had asked for the morning Raylan’d gone down on him the week before.

_Faster, slower, more tongue, roll my balls._ Raylan could hear Tim’s words in his head.

Raylan ran his tongue from the base of Tim’s cock to the head several times slowly, then traveled south. He laved the line between Tim’s balls over and over. He rubbed his tongue under them, flicking and stabbing his tongue against Tim’s perineum—finding the seam in the skin of Tim’s crotch, the line between Tim’s halves and once found Raylan traced it lovingly, then fiercely.

Raylan sucked his balls into his mouth listening to Tim moan as he pulled them fully into his mouth together, then separately, then together again. He buried his nose in them and blew across Tim’s ass.

“You can touch me there,” Tim said, his voice a thin whisper.

Raylan sucked on his forefinger and pressed the tip against Tim’s hole before his lover relaxed and Raylan’s finger slid inside. He crooked it, feeling around for Tim’s hot spot but unable to find it.  _Ah, the joys of twenty-nine,”_ Raylan thought. “ _A hot tight ballsac at the cost of a hard-to-find prostate.”_

Raylan could tell the moment he finally did find it in the way Tim’s cock jerked on its own, precum glistening out of the slit in its head. Losing the leverage of one of his arms because he’d shifted to finger Tim, Raylan pressed his chin again Tim’s balls to swipe his tongue up his cock.

“Yeah. Oh my fuck Ray, yeah,” Tim cried out. “More.” Raylan could feel Tim’s heels digging hard into his shoulder blades, urging him on. “Again,” Tim whined.

Raylan simultaneously loved and hated Tim’s heated response because he didn’t know what he’d done to warrant it.

Raylan pulled back to look up at Tim’s face, watching him chew on his lower lip. “No… don’t stop. Again,” Tim moaned.

“Um… Tim?” Raylan said. “What’d I do?”

The sniper’s body shook as he laughed. “Your chin. Your goatee on my balls,” Tim said.

“You like that?” Raylan said, wrapping his hand around Tim’s cock to slowly stroke him while he sucked Tim’s balls into his mouth again.

“And that too,” Tim gritted out.

Satisfied that he’d gotten Tim’s balls good and slick, he pressed his chin against them letting the hair of his goatee brush Tim’s ballsac. He pumped Tim’s cock with his left hand and flicked his sweet spot with his right forefinger. Raylan smiled when Tim groaned.

“That, yeah that,” Tim said, knocking Raylan’s hand away from his cock. “Give me this… you keep that up. Fuck, I’m close.”

Raylan gingerly brushed his chin in a circle, watching Tim’s hand fly as he pumped his cock. When Tim came, he threw his head back and arched his back digging his heels into Raylan’s shoulder blades again like he could spur him on, but the action gave Tim enough traction to shift his hips and grind his balls against Raylan’s goatee. Raylan felt Tim slam down on his finger and watched Tim’s cum stripe the front of a dark shirt.

Raylan sighed inwardly.

Another laundry casualty.

***

The next morning, Vasquez wanted Raylan and Tim in a pretrial meeting with Art.

“What’s the point of this?” Tim grumbled, as they filed into the conference room again. He pulled the lid off his coffee, blowing over the top and sipping it periodically.

“Rearden is already pissed off that you two screwed up the Arnet execution,” Vasquez said. “I want to make sure you don’t fuck this up by say… sleeping together.”

No one in the room seemed to want to follow that statement, so they didn’t.

“I understand you two share a room at an Extended Stay America on the south side of Lexington,” Vasquez said, pressing on. He laid a copy of the bill from their hotel on the table and used one finger to push it over to Raylan.

Tim watched Raylan and Art exchange a series of nonverbal cues ending with a shrug on Art’s part. If he had to guess, Art hadn’t hung them out to dry.

“You caught me. I’m sleeping with my boyfriend,” Raylan said, his eyes darting once to Tim, who nodded his head once. He could agree with that statement; he actually liked it. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business, though. And we didn’t screw up the Arnet case. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“But who killed him?” Vasquez’s eyebrows reached a level on his forehead indicating a state of pissiness on the attorney’s part that Tim hadn’t thought Vasquez had in him.  

“My guess? Someone one step higher or lower in the food chain—I’m leaning toward the Dixie mafia, but could be in the Detroit direction, too. I figure we wait and see who emerges as the next area master, wait for the DNA on the claw marks, then look closer at the area wolf packs for someone who can handle a partial shift,” Raylan said. “Odds are the master and the claws will connect. What I don’t get is what does _that_ have to do with our personal lives?”

“Arnet ticks Rearden off,” Vasquez pointed out.

“Then petition for another judge for Bo Crowder’s case,” Tim said.

“Or I could just have Art send you home,” Vasquez said.

“You could try,” Art said, “but that’s not really within your purview, is it, David?”

“You’re seriously all right with this?” Vasquez asked Art.

“Not really,” Art said, shooting Raylan, then Tim a pointed look, “and not for why you two Bozos think either. It’s not a gay thing.” Art’s eyes rested on Tim until he nodded at the chief. “But they’re right, the preternatural branch _is_ different. They’re the best in their field. You kick one of them off this case, the other one will go with him, and you’ll never prosecute the first preternatural RICO case in legal history. Isn’t that what you’ve got such a hard-on to do here?”

“A good defense attorney would bring up their—” Vasquez started.

“Vasquez, when was the last time you saw _any_ defense attorney inside a courtroom on a request for a warrant of execution?” Rayan asked.

Raylan was right. Even if they knew about a pending execution warrant case, vampires being indicted didn’t show up to court for their trials. Being present in the courtroom at the moment a judge handed over a warrant for their execution to their executioners made them a bit too easy to find. Tim thought that when it came down to it, it was a bastardization of their legal system, especially if vampires were legal US citizens. But at the moment, he wasn’t in a position to throw stones at it. The case against Bo Crowder was hardly the ideal litmus test for unconstitutionality in preternatural law.

“Besides,” Art said, “would a man who spends his nights in stripper bars and wears nothing but a red Speedo under his judicial robes really piss with the two men in the country who’ve killed more scary monsters than anyone else because he doesn’t like who they’re sleeping with?”

***

Vasquez was right; Rearden was pissed off.

But he didn’t fight the warrant. Tim and Raylan didn’t even have to testify. Vasquez had enough physical evidence gathered by the KSP to prove Bo was guilty of trafficking of preternatural creatures, coupled with four separate witnesses testifying against Bo Crowder, backed by up the posthumous deposition of the son of the very vampire in question. Rearden signed away the warrant naming Raylan as the executioner.

“I expect you to actually deliver on this one, Deputy,” Rearden said, pointing his pen at Raylan sitting in the public gallery with Rachel, Tim and Art.

Nelson came into the courtroom and whispered in Art’s ear. He huffed and pulled himself out of his seat on the bench. Within a few minutes, he was back, pointed a swooping finger from Rachel down the line to Tim. “You three, hallway, now,” he whispered.

Raylan headed out of the courtroom, followed by Rachel and Tim. As soon as the door swung shut, Art dropped his bomb. “Boyd Crowder’s body was gone this morning,” Art said. “Nelson said the sheriff’s office called. They’ve got a deputy over at the Fayette County Coroner’s office taking a statement from a medical examiner who reported the body stolen from the morgue.”

“Shit,” Raylan said. “Had they already done the autopsy?”

“Nope,” Art said.

“They’ve had him all day, why not?” Raylan asked.

“Well, Raylan, they probably assumed he didn’t have any pressing plans, so he’d wait,” Art said.

“Guess they were wrong,” Raylan said.

***

The Fayette County Coroner’s office was only two blocks down and one back from the Federal Courthouse building, a whole two minutes away by car.

“I know the way, I’ll drive,” Rachel said. She parked in the back of the building.

“The entrance is in front.” Rachel strode off toward a sidewalk that ran alongside a brick warehouse building painted stark white.

Raylan started to follow when Tim veered off, poking around the back of the building where the drop-off bay was located.

“Whatcha find?”

“Door propped open,” Tim said, pointing to a gray steel door with what looked like the handle of a hand truck shoved between the door and its doorjamb.

“They leave their back door propped open?” Raylan asked, disbelief clear in his voice.

“Ladder here, too, leading to the fixed caged access ladder for the roof? Coke can on the heat pump. Looks like someone’s working on the AC, maybe?” Tim said. “Could be for smokers but I don’t see any butts around.”

“I’ve got one camera on the corner for the back, but none over the drop-off bay or the back entrance,” Rachel said. “It’s dome-style. Hopefully the angle is wide enough we can see if anyone came or went who shouldn’t have.”

They circled the building and went in the front entrance and knocked, but no one came.

“I’ll call the after-hours number.” Rachel pulled out her cell.

“They should be open, right?” Raylan said. He grabbed Tim’s left arm and turned his hand up to look at the watch face on the inside of his lover’s wrist. “It’s pushing ten already.”

“You done?” Tim asked, waiting for Raylan to nod before he took his hand back. “I’m going to go in around back.” Tim turned to head to the back of the building.

“Don’t get shot. There’s supposed to be a sheriff’s deputy in there,” Raylan said. Tim waved his hand at him as he walked away.

 

Tim and a flustered medical examiner let Rachel and Raylan in a few minutes later. The medical examiner took them to the coroner’s office, then retreated back into the building.

The Fayette County Coroner was off to bad start that Tuesday morning.

“Call me Lillian,” she said, shaking Raylan hand. Something about the older woman, with short graying hair popped his necromancy. It wasn’t a feeling of death. He watched her mannerisms as Tim and Rachel exchanged words with her and a county sheriff’s deputy. She was twitchy, but had a control over her body, her walk, her stance made Raylan think lycanthrope. She caught him watching her and narrowed her gaze. He nodded his head to the side once, to acknowledge that she’d caught him. Her lips pressed into a firm line. Raylan understood. If she was a form of lycanthrope and she was passing as a county coroner, then if her status as positive for lycanthropy was made public, she’d lose her not only her job, but her medical license.

“Let’s get you access to the security cameras,” Lillian said.

She was pulling them up on her computer screen.

“Do you always leave the back door open?” Tim asked.

“They’re servicing the AC,” she explained tightly. “The morgue is not the type of workplace that can operate with functioning ventilation and air conditioning.”

“I can imagine,” Rachel said.

She flipped a monitor around to face the marshals and handed a wireless keyboard and mouse over to Rachel. Apparently, Rachel was not only Art’s favorite. Rachel passed the keyboard to Tim, her left arm still in a cast from the break the weak before. She kept the mouse.

They quickly narrowed down the outside cameras first.

“We had two nighttime drop-offs,” Lillian said, scrolling through her cell phone. “Looks like one around 1:20 am, and another close to 4 am.”

“What do your shifts run here?” Tim said, slowing the back door camera down.

“Morning shift runs seven to three, evening is three to eleven, and night is eleven to seven. As a deceased Federal witness, they held Mr. Crowder over so I could personally conduct his autopsy.” Lillian said. “We noticed his absence about nine this morning.”

“Absence?” Raylan asked.

“Yes, exactly.” She nodded, then stood and waved toward the door. “Deputy Givens, may I have a word in private?”

They stepped out into the hallway in relative privacy.

“His body bag was torn open and the sterile sheet we wrap the deceased in was shredded. He did not have personal items brought in with him, as a prisoner. But the personal belongings of other victims in the cold room were raided,” Lillian told Raylan, matter-of-factly. “Clothing, primarily.”

“And?”

“I believe I can count on your discretion when I tell you that Mr. Crowder’s sterile sheet smelled of vampire.”

“Smelled?” Raylan asked.

She stared at him. “You don’t strike me as a dense man.”

Raylan was holding up his hands in acceptance of her point when Tim called out to them.

“Fair enough,” he told her, turning back to her office. “You have my discretion.”

“I thought as much,” Lillian said.

“How did you—”

She shook her head. “Now Deputy, that’s not how discretion works, is it?”

 

“Raylan, you need to see this,” Rachel said, moving a mouse cursor across the security footage timeline.

“Let me guess, Boyd walked out of here at some point last night.”

“You’re no fun at all,” Tim said, turning to shoot Raylan a disapproving look, working his lips to keep them in a stern expression. Raylan smirked back. He knew that Tim damn well knew exactly how fun Raylan really was.

The moment stretched out until Rachel cleared her throat.

“He slipped out during the one twenty drop-off,” Tim said. He pulled up the video. A Fayette County Coroner’s van backed in, and while they medical examiners were unloading a body bag onto a gurney Boyd slipped out wearing purloined dress pants that pooled around his bare feet and a dark T-shirt with short sleeves that showed he was still covered in dried blood from his death the night before.

“Zombie?” Rachel asked.

On the video, Boyd slipped his hands into his pockets, walked calmly north on Noble Street, and got into a late-model Cadillac parked too far away to see the plate.

Raylan didn’t let on, but Tim picked it up.

“Walks too smooth. Vampire,” Tim said. “I’m going to take a walk out back and see if any of the neighboring buildings have a security camera.”

Raylan and Rachel talked to Lillian about the prospect that Boyd could have rolled her night-shift employees with vampire powers so they wouldn’t notice him slipping away.

“I really don’t think so,” Lillian said. “The night-shift medical in-house examiner is very religious—never removes her cross. I think if Mr. Crowder had been emanating enough vampire power to roll her mind, her cross would have lit up—causing a burn, its removal, or something noticeable. She was wearing it this morning.”

“You checked that?” Rachel asked, suspicious.

Lillian smiled. “I did. I had my suspicions. You work around the dead long enough you know the signs. As I mentioned to Deputy Givens—there was missing clothing and no sign of breaking and entering,” Lillian explained. “This is not the first time we’ve had the dead rise and walk away from our morgue. Typically, we know ahead of time and can have blood on hand, along with a vampire counselor or at least the newly risen’s sire.”

“Who _was_ his sire?” Rachel asked.

“Only vampire around him the last three days was his attorney,” Raylan said. “They did meet in private before each interview. What I’d like to know is who Boyd had to eat last night. Vampires aren’t known to rise calm and controlled. You sure your staff is all accounted for?”

 

While Raylan and Rachel finished investigating the cold room where Boyd rose from the dead and then began sweeping the rest of the building again with the sheriff’s deputy and coroner’s daytime staff—making sure all the bodies in the morgue were supposed to be there and not left over from Boyd Crowder’s breakfast, Tim made his way down the little road that was more alley than actual street behind the coroner’s office. About four buildings down, when he smelled it before he saw it—the pungent odor of ammonia and booze. He found two men huddled on a couple wood pallets behind a peeling gray building. A pool of wet cement under one of them was the source of the smell.

Tim eyed the building. Just his luck, he’d finally found a security camera—mounted high up on the wall behind the men. He wondered if it even worked if the homeless in the area were bold enough to take a public piss in full view of the security camera.

“You gentlemen don’t happen to know if that camera works, do you?” Tim asked.

“Shit, cops,” the older man cussed, he grabbed a grabbed a drawstring bag, and took off down the street.

The other man was holding his head in his hands. He looked up at Tim. “Iffn' it works, nevah nt'rfered wid an aftanoon cocktail.”

“Thanks,” Tim said, and took off down the street and around the corner to try the business from the front.

He found a bald potbellied man working the counter who waffled about the cameras until Tim upped the ante with his badge and a threat of more LEO involvement and a possible fire inspection. The camera system was digital with shitty resolution but Boyd and his ride passed right under a streetlight behind the store. Tim clipped the section of video, made the employee log in to his email account, and Tim e-mailed the clip to himself from the open account.

“The Marshals Service thanks you for your support,” Tim said as he walked out. The man flipped him the bird, and Tim wondered idly why no one ever seem to believe him when he thanked them—no matter how he varied that last word.  

 

Raylan and Rachel were coming out the front door of the coroner’s office when Tim was about a building away. He dug his phone of his pocket while he walked and swiped his e-mail open, starting to download the video clip.

“Any luck?” Rachel asked.

“Got a clip of a Cadillac Brougham—probably late 80s and a partial of Boyd and the driver. Resolution is shit but they roll under the streetlight,” Tim said. “It’s downloading.”

They walked back to Rachel’s car, which was much like Raylan’s, only a dark blue Town Car instead of shiny black. Tim sat in the middle of the backseat, leaning forward between the two bucket front seats to play the video for them, pausing it when the caddy rolled close enough to the light to illuminate the driver and passenger.

“Either one of you recognize this guy?” Tim asked.

“Shit. I’d know those teeth anywhere,” Raylan said. “Dewey. Dewey Crowe.”

Rachel peered closer. “Can you make enlarge the image of Mr. Crowe?”

Tim spread the image wider with a swipe of his thumb and forefinger. Rachel nodded. “Looks like Boyd had Dewey for breakfast,” she said, pointing to the darkness dripping down his neck that could only be blood.

Raylan shook his head. “So much for that Humans First bullshit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, sick, sad true story behind some scenes in this chapter:
> 
> When I’m blocked, it’s because I don’t know enough about the scene or what’s happening in it to feel/picture it in my head. I fix this through research. You've heard it before: Details. The Devil. He's supposed to be in there and all that.   
> I needed to see the scene in my head of Boyd rising from the dead… and realized I needed to find the morgue in Lexington and find out what it looked like. Would Dewey steal his body or would Boyd walk out on his own? Much depended on the building, how I saw it, etc. So, I found it. It is very much as you read about it in this chapter—from the outside anyway. On the day the Google truck went by, they had their back door propped open. I kid you not. I wanted to call them and warn them, but how would *that* convo go: “Hey, I was writing some slash fan fiction about Raylan and Tim being vampire executioners and having some really fun sex, too. You know them, right? From Justified?? Anyway, I was trying to bring Boyd Crowder back to life in your morgue when I Google-stalked your building and saw that you just hang out with your back door propped open. What’s up with that? Isn’t that some kind of security risk? Wouldn’t that compromise your cases?”
> 
> Yeah, I didn’t see it going well either. 
> 
> I got past Boyd rising in my head and getting out of the morgue and Tim went to walk the back alley/road to look for cameras. I figured I'd see what really was there. I was running the camera up and down Noble Street doing Tim’s walk-through for security cameras… and I was on my way back down Noble and found the ONLY security camera on the block outside the coroner’s cameras. It was over a man who was sitting on a pallet peeing on the cement while the Google cam went by. Didn’t even take his shorts off. (This is the sick, sad part of the story, yes, aw, there's a sad part.) Dude had his creepy, sad, little peen sticking out of his shorts. His friend just hung his head in his hands. I’m still not sure if they were doing it on purpose or not. Google map it and see if you are bored. I'm still not sure how to read the scene so I just read it like Tim looking for a camera stumbling on two drunks.
> 
> Sometimes, reality is crazier than what you can make up. 
> 
> I think there are three or four more chapters to go. Chapter 17 is running long so I may have to break it up. We'll see. :) I blocked out Book 2 today, too. Yay.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost: a special thank-you to the wonderful [ Jonjo ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonjo/pseuds/Jonjo) for beta-reading for this chapter and future chapters. I appreciate your input, advice, and sharp eye, Jonjo.  
> And second, we have a final chapter count now -- nineteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note - trigger warnings for this chapter. We acquired yet another of the of the scarier tags with this chapter--Non consent/Rape.  
> Triggers include: past child abuse, rape AND non consent (yes, I worked BOTH in), and homophobic language.

“I thought the plan was to try not to piss off Rearden.” Vasquez said, handing Raylan his execution warrant for Bo Crowder. “Maybe you could start by not walking out of his courtroom without the warrant I spent two hours arguing that we absolutely needed him sign.”

“I was coming back.” Raylan shook his head and moved away from Vasquez, not wanting to sit near him.

By noon, they were back in the courthouse and Art had called Vasquez in to discuss Boyd Crowder’s death and newly risen status. Meeting in the conference room, Tim sent the surveillance videos they’d collected that morning to the display monitor. He’d paused the video as Boyd was walking out the coroner’s back door, the very edge of the camera mounted on the back corner of the building catching his face under the spotlight over the door.

“Well. That’s Boyd Crowder all right,” Art said.

“How’d this happen?” Vasquez asked.

“We think his attorney was his sire. She was alone with him on the three consecutive nights prior to his death,” Raylan said.

“How does that play in? Why three nights?” Art asked.

“No one’s sure. Running theory is a vampire bite transmits a toxin or virus to humans and it builds up to a high enough level over three running days so when the host dies, the change kicks in,” Raylan said. “But then, there are rumors of more powerful vampires turning humans with one bite. Maybe some carry stronger toxins in their bite?”

“Great,” Art said.

“Can we do anything about this?” Rachel asked. “What laws has he broken?”

“None. It’s not against the law to become a vampire. Most people wouldn’t attempt it while incarcerated because until recently the penal system defaulted toward execution for vampires found guilty of anything from shoplifting up. We can call his attorney in once night falls, but I doubt we’ll get much out of her,” Vasquez said. “At the time of his death, Boyd Crowder wasn’t guilty of any actionable crime. Per his deal, he still has immunity for the crimes we suspected him of committing in Harlan before his death. His deposition led to an execution warrant.”

“He was supposed to testify and didn’t,” Tim said. “He didn’t hold up his end of the deal.”

“He was dead when we called witnesses so we never called him, and we used his deposition—getting exactly what we traded his immunity for, an execution order for his father,” Vasquez said.

“It strikes me odd that Monica is also Wynn Duffy’s attorney. Boyd could be in bed with the Dixie mafia. Might be some ground for prosecution there,” Raylan said.

“That’s thin,” Art said.

“It’s thin now,” Raylan countered.

“What about the zombies? The one that killed the foreman and the pack that came after Tim and myself?” Raylan asked.

“If he did place the gris-gris on the foreman, he’s immune to prosecution,” Vasquez said. “Part of his deal.”

“I didn’t pick up guilt for that,” Rachel added. “Boyd was in jail when you and Tim were attacked.”

“Odds are all the zombies came from the same source. You just don’t trip over Voudun priests and priestesses in eastern Kentucky,” Raylan said.

 “So, what if the zombies that came after Raylan and Tim were retribution from the Dixie Mafia and the Detroit contingent?” Art asked. “That’s got more traction than Boyd Crowder trying to take you and Tim out.”

“If Boyd’s part of that, can we execute him for that?” Rachel asked.

“It’d be a stretch. Since he cleared ‘his slate’ before he turned,” Vasquez said, making air quotes with his fingers, “I’d have problems going after him for anything he did before he died. Further, what’s his motivation? He got everything he wanted out of you. Boyd Crowder played you, the marshals service, and the Federal court system.”

Tim huffed in disgust.

But Raylan mumbled, “The question is why.”

***

After lunch, Dr. Louie Fane approached Raylan’s desk.

“Louie. I thought you cleared out after court this morning,” Raylan said. Louie had been on hand to translate the harpy sisters’ testimony for Judge Reardon.

“I did actually. You know how I told you I had an idea about where the harpies could stay since WITSEC wouldn’t be practical for them,” Louie said.

“Go on,” Raylan said.

“I have a colleague who runs a refuge—a land preservation that’s the home of a colony of gargoyles indigenous to Kentucky in Kelly—in Christian County. The gargoyles are carrion eaters—similar to the harpies when they hunt wild. Elizabeth thinks that the harpies, if they’re willing, could stay at the preserve until we found something more permanent for them after the immediate threat lifts.”

“Interesting idea. Let’s run it by Art and Tim,” Raylan said.

“The colony is a good three hours from Lexington, five from Harlan.”

The marshals service found in the last day or so that Lexington wasn’t a good place for the harpies. They were miserable in motel rooms. They wanted to be outside but there wasn’t anywhere safe for them in public; they weren’t shifters so they couldn’t pass as human. The night they’d spent in Lexington hadn’t been easy on either the harpies or the deputies assigned as their guards. Raylan thought it might not be a bad idea to get them tucked away somewhere safe before he and Tim went after Bo Crowder. Or before Bo caught wind that the marshals were keeping tabs on the women.

Raylan pointed Louie toward Art’s office to pitch the idea to Art and Tim. He stopped by Rachel’s desk and wrote down on a piece of paper, “I need to you to get a feel on Fane’s pitch.”  She raised her eyebrows.

“Louie has an idea on a placement for the harpies. Have a minute to join us in Art’s office?” he asked aloud.

“Sure.” Rachel followed him.

When they walked in, Louie was already pitching his idea.

“I could continue to work with them to help them learn English,” Louie volunteered.

“And maybe study them?” Raylan asked.

“Yes,” Louie said.

“You can’t publish anything. You can’t even tell anyone you know they exist. Until we wrap up the RICO case and eliminate the threat to these women, you can’t just run off to visit them either,” Raylan said.

“You could be followed,” Tim said.

 “I know. We could work with the refuge to give them English lessons over Skype,” Louie said. “They aren’t unintelligent. They’re just mythological and very, very old.”

“The older vampires don’t handle technology well,” Raylan said. “What makes you think the harpies would be any different?”

“True,” Louie said. “They may hate it. But we can try.”

Art nodded.

Raylan pulled out his credit card. “Hey Tim, you want to make a coffee run? My treat. Take Louie with you to help cart and carry,” Raylan said. “If we do this, it’s gonna be a long night.”

“Sure.” Tim left with Louie. Raylan held a finger to his lips.

After Tim and Louie had gotten in the elevator and had been gone a few minutes, Art asked, “Is there a reason why you got rid of the professor?”

“Call it intuition—but I think Louie might have excellent hearing. If I’m wrong, I’d hate to besmirch a good man’s name. If I’m right, all we need to know is if Rachel thinks his intentions are sincere,” Raylan said. Lycanthropy was considered a disease. As an educator, even at the collegiate level, being outed as a were would end Dr. Fane’s career. So far the man had been nothing but helpful; destroying his life would be a poor form of repayment. Art and Rachel seemed to grasp the subtext because they didn’t push the point.

“Nothing untoward. He felt earnest in his desire to help them. I don’t think he’s got an ulterior motive. You scared the shit out of him when you sent him off with Tim though,” Rachel said.

“Art? You want to send the harpies to Kelly?” Raylan asked.

“Might as well. I don’t have any better ideas for them,” Art said. “Perry is scared shitless of them. Apparently the one with the black feathers whispered something to him, and now Clive won’t go near them.”

“That’s the one with the visions?” Raylan asked.

Art nodded.

When Tim and Louie returned, Rachel and Tim agreed to take the harpies and Louie down to Kelly that afternoon. Tim ran a background check on Elizabeth, the woman managing the preserve, and found her on the up-and-up—though she was a registered lycanthrope carrying a wereleopard strain of the disease—but they agreed added muscle wouldn’t hurt.

“Do you think there would be inherent biological conflicts between pairing an avian species with a caretaker that’s essentially a big cat?” Tim asked.

“Weres don’t follow the same rules,” Louie said. “It’s more of a predator vs prey issue with lycanthropes—or so I’ve read,” he cleared his throat. “There may be some discomfort when a lycanthrope who is a prey animal feels vulnerable to a predator, but the harpies themselves are predators as much as their leopards are.”

Raylan met Rachel’s eyes and she nodded.

“All right,” Art said, gracing the deal with his approval.

Even so, they decided that Rachel would do a more thorough interview with Elizabeth before they left the harpies there. Louie would talk the harpies through the transition, answering any questions they might have and making sure their needs were met. The idea was to make sure the gargoyles and harpies could coexist without killing each other.

Raylan walked them out to a van.

“When you think you’ll be back?” he asked Tim.

“Maybe tonight. I expect tomorrow though. I want to get a feel for the place before we leave them,” Tim answered.

“And if the ladies don’t agree?” Raylan asked.

“Then I’ll be back sooner.” Tim climbed into the passenger seat pulling the door shut behind him, keyed the ignition, and rolled down the window to his door.

While Rachel was helping Louie into the back of the van, Raylan leaned his head in through the window.

“C’mere,” he said.

“What’re you doin’?” Tim turned to face him and Raylan pressed their mouths together in a quick kiss.

“Don’t let the harpies steal you. Or eat you.”

Tim half-laughed as Raylan pulled back. “Didn’t know you cared.”

“Yeah you did.” Raylan patted the side of the van twice and swaggered back toward the courthouse.

***

 

In the van hold, Louie worked with the harpies on the ride down, explaining the preserve and the gargoyles. He also broke out a laptop and walked them through what Skype was and how they could continue to communicate long distance, if the harpies wanted to take English lessons with him. By the time they pulled into the reserve, there was only an hour of light left. Tim and Rachel decided to give the harpies overnight to settle in before they headed back to Lexington.

***

 

With everyone off to Kelly for the rest of the day, Raylan found himself the odd man out. Weighing his options, he planned to start running down some intel on the local packs until Tim got back and they could go after Bo Crowder.

Raylan had gotten close to nowhere in locating the local wolf packs. Art was woefully ignorant of the more involved aspects of the local preternatural community. Raylan thought he’d start with the one confirmed lycanthrope he knew in the area: Dr. Lillian, the coroner. But Lillian met his query with a cold stare.

“Deputy, Webster’s dictionary defines discretion as ‘the ability to make intelligent decisions, especially in everyday matters.’ I need to inform you that I’m questioning your intelligence at the moment,” Lillian said.

“I actually thought this was a pretty smart move,” Raylan said.

Lillian’s stare grew colder.

“Or not,” Raylan said. “I’ll see myself out.”

He wouldn’t be getting a leg up on the preternatural scene with any intel from the good doctor. Around three, he’d just finished an ice cream cone in lieu of a late lunch when his cell rang—a Harlan number.

“Raylan.”

“Aunt Helen?”

“I need help,” his aunt said.

“What’s Arlo done now?

“Don’t be that way,” she said. “Arlo finally got out of the hospital after your boyfriend put him—”

“Helen,” Raylan said, cautioning her with the tone of his voice. “What about Arlo?”

“He’s home. And Bo Crowder came wanting his money back for the zombie miners we put to rest that night,” she said.

“We had to do that. That was Marshals business,” Raylan said

“I know that. You know that, but Arlo and Bo don’t agree. Bo says I either need to raise more zombies for him or pay him back,” Helen said.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“He wants $150,000 or twelve more zombies,” Helen said.

Raylan didn’t bite at either option. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where to find Bo Crowder. Might be time for me to have a little talk with him,” Raylan said. Tim shouldn’t be back until late that night or early the next day. If they knew Bo’s daytime resting place, there was no reason they couldn’t hit Bo the next day. 

“I don’t know where Bo rests over the day. Arlo might, but I don’t think you should come around.”

“Then why’d you call me?”

She didn’t answer.

“Oh, zombies or money. Where’s Arlo?”

“Since he got out of the hospital, he’s not been right. They tried to fix his meds, but he won’t take them,” Helen said. “We’re having a bad spell.”

“Bad spell? You mean like when I was a kid?”

“Some things don’t change.”

“He hit you?”

She laughed. “And who’s to say I didn’t hit him back, Raylan.”

“Is there somewhere you could stay…” 

“You know better than that.”

“All right. I’ll be along, Helen. Hide downstairs, lock yourself in the storm cellar if you have to. It’ll be a few hours.”

When he was a kid and his aunt Helen came for him, she’d pull up outside, and he’d run down to her car, and she’d take him away from the house until the storm blew over.

Raylan, however, had to park, and that was his undoing.

***

 

Elizabeth, the gargoyle preserve manager, introduced a gargoyle who Tim assumed was their alpha, or whatever they called a leader of an audacity of gargoyles, to the harpies. They had a word for their group, but not their jefe. The wereleopard explained to them that the “’goyles” could understand spoken English, but didn’t often verbalize when they communicated.

Elizabeth went on to explain how ’goyles in an audacity could prove dangerous to one or two men, but alone they were shy of man. The Kentucky species of gargoyle Tim had seen so far that day weren’t tall—only about four-feet at best, but their bodies were heavily muscled. He thought he could take them easily one-on-one, but Elizabeth had a point. They’d be a problem in a group. For that reason, wildlife officials tended to work diligently to keep people away from the colony.

“The Kentucky Department of Fish and Wildlife banned all hunting in the preserve,” Elizabeth said. “Doesn’t make the neighboring farmers real happy with us.”

“Why’s that?” Rachel asked.

“They feel like the local deer herds get out of control,” Elizabeth explained. “I’ve had to bring the other leopards from my pard out help to cull them down and let the ’goyles follow behind and clean up. The ’goyles are scavengers, more like buzzards than predators. If the harpies can take over that kind of role, then they could coexist here very well.”

Tim watched the gargoyle take this in and wondered how much the gun-metal gray winged creature picked up of what she said. He reminded Tim of his dogs—they knew something was afoot and got the general gist, but he was sure the semantics were lost on them. Staying over and watching to see if they could work together would be in the harpies’ best interest.

***

 

Arlo had learned from his fight with Tim. Raylan never saw the bat coming. Arlo felled Raylan with one swing of his Henry Aaron to the temple, knocking Raylan’s brain against the other side of his skull, sending him into unconsciousness.

He dumped his son’s body and his highfalutin hat into back of his truck and covered both with a plastic tarp. He’d hide the car in the barn later, after he’d delivered Raylan up to Bo’s mine—the one where he liked to bury himself deep underground during the daylight hours on days he didn’t want to be found.

***

 

Tim tried to call Raylan and let him know they were staying over, but he barely had half a bar on his cell phone. He managed to get one call to go through and got his voicemail.

“Raylan, we’re going to stay the night. Be back—” Tim heard his phone signal the call drop.

“Did you want to use the land line to call him?” Elizabeth asked.

Tim thought about it. “He knew we were thinking about coming back tomorrow. Rachel can let Art know when she checks in. He’ll pass it on,” Tim said. “You mentioned you had a backpacking sleeping bag. I think I’ll head into the preserve with the harpies tonight.”

Elizabeth eyed him a little too curiously for Tim’s tastes before she went in to get the sleeping bag. His eyes traveled over to Rachel, who looked amused.

 

They’d split up. Rachel would stay with Louie and the wereleopard Elizabeth in the house located in the center of fifty miles of wooded preserve land.

Tim’s goal was to run with the harpies and see them integrate with the gargoyles. If there was any danger of them killing or maiming each other, he’d put a stop to it. Tim thought, Raylan seemed to think the harpies’ immortality as mythic creatures made them all-around impervious. Tim wasn’t so sure. He’d made a career of killing the unkillable. Even if you were immortal, another monster could still eat you. That was as good as dead, in Tim’s opinion.

So, Tim ran with them that night. At first, the gargoyles trailed around after them watching carefully while Tim and the harpies took turns hunting each other—like a game of tag—until the harpies stumbled onto the scent of a deer, then Tim joined them in a cooperative hunt. The gargoyles followed in the shadows.  

One of the harpies, the fast one, Ocypete had called him over to the fresh kill. She’d knocked Tim flat on his ass when they’d been playing tag earlier and was gone before he even knew what’d hit him. Only her laughter ringing from a tree branch a good twenty feet off clued him in to who’d flattened him.

Tim joined them beside the buck they’d been tearing into with the talons on their feet.

“Teem, Teem!” Ocypete crowed. They spoke his name like Nahtoo. He was getting used to it.

She grasped the venison heart in her talons, offering it to him. The harpies had nothing like hands, so he supposed this was her way of handing the warm heart to him.

Tim girded himself and tried not to think of his father taking him hunting as a preteen—forcing him to bite into the heart of his first kill. He took a decent-sized bite—big enough not to insult them and resisted the urge to rub the blood from his mouth. Then, he walked it around the group, holding it out to each harpy for them to take a bite. He nodded his head in the direction of the gargoyles waiting in the wings, Ocypete nodded. He approached the gargoyle he thought was the leader Elizabeth introduced them to—Tim recognized him primarily because he stepped out to eat first.

“An offering from my girls,” Tim said holding out the heart—still sizable even missing four respectable bites. “With an understanding that you or yours hurt them, I’m coming back for you.”

The gargoyles, unlike the harpies, had hands. The leader paused at Tim’s words, then nodded and took the heart. He bit down, then passed it to who Tim assumed as his second. Maybe they did pick up more language than Tim’s dogs.

From what Tim could tell, when they took down a second buck that night, a symbiotic relationship between the audacity and the clamor was entirely possible and probably very likely.

***

 

Raylan came around with a splitting headache. He had a concussion at least, but he thought it was probably worse because he wanted to throw up and pass out again all at once. The asphalt smell from what he knew had to be an underground mine didn’t help. God, he hated being underground.

“I know you’re awake, little Executioner,” a voice said.

Instinctively, Raylan knew it was a vampire. And he was pretty sure it was Boyd’s daddy, but that didn’t make sense.

He opened his eyes and saw not only Boyd’s father, but his own.

“Arrrlo,” Raylan slurred. He remembered being blindsided.

“Are we square Bo? Does this make things right for the zombies?” Arlo asked.

“It sure does, Arlo,” Bo said. “But best you go on now. What’s got to happen ain’t for a father to see.”

“We’re back in business though, right? Helen can raise more zombies whenever you’re ready,” Arlo said.

Bo laughed. “What do I need Helen for, Arlo? I’ve got a real live necromancer right here. I don’t need an knock-off animator when I got the gold standard right there,” Bo said.

“Good luck getting him to do what you ask. Never did follow any direction from me I didn’t have to beat into him,” Arlo said.

“Don’t worry about that Arlo. Like I said, time for you to go. No need for you to see what gotta happen next,” Bo said, laughing, then his tone turned serious. “Get out Arlo.”

He listened to his father leave him. Raylan tried to open his eyes, squinting them at the weak light in the room made his head throb even worse. He peered around the room. Bo had the room wired for light. It wasn’t bright but it hurt his eyes. Raylan could see his hands were cuffed in front of him. Great, his own cuffs. He supposed it could be worse, they could be behind his back. He wondered where his executioner’s kit was, and went to bury his head in his hands, finding his hat. He let it fall off into his hands to take the pressure off his head. It didn’t really help, but he’d pretend it did.

Raylan felt Bo pick him up with his vampire strength fisting his hand in Raylan’s shirt and jacket over his collarbone, and dragging him to his feet. The vampire lifted him up so the tips of his boots dragged the ground. The vampire pulled Raylan to him, his hat pressed between them. Just as Raylan felt a wave of nausea hit and an urgent need to throw up, the cross he wore under his shirt warmed and burned the skin under it—brought to life by the presence of vampire power.

Raylan cried out but didn’t grasp at it trying to just bear the pain. He didn’t want Bo to know he had a weapon under his shirt. Then a cool wave that felt similar in flavor to his necromancy, definitely death magic, circled around him. It felt like water dousing the fire in his head, healing the throbbing in his head while it infused him with a power that mingled with his own.

“What are you doing—”

“Making you mine, Necromancer.”

“No. Oh, no, no, no.”

Bo laughed. “You don’t have a choice in the matter, little Executioner.”

“I said no,” Raylan said.

“That’s one mark—no or not,” Bo said. “You’re welcome. Probably just saved your life. Can’t believe how hard your daddy hit you.”

“I will not be your human servant, Bo,” Raylan said. Though Bo hadn’t physically touched Raylan, he’d marked him with his power. The vampire marks led to one thing; Bo intended to make him his human servant, to tie them together metaphysically.

“Like you have a choice,” Bo said, dropping Raylan back down to the ground. “He really did almost kill you. I can feel you pulling a lot of energy to heal. Shit, Arlo.” Bo shook his head at the man who was already gone.

Raylan’s head now reeled for a different reason. Bo Crowder had marked him, and it took. He could feel his mind clearing the confusion left in the wake of the blow to his head. He leaned forward to let the cross fall away from his skin and hopefully not heal into him. Raylan mentally ran down what he knew about vampires marking their human servants. The process consisted of four marks that created a bond between the vampire and the human, a give-and-take sharing of energy, power, and thought, depending on the level of mark. Once a mark was given, only the death of either the human or the vampire removed it. But generally the death of one took the other along for the ride. Raylan knew there were exceptions—like Bo killing his master, then a sire turning him. But Raylan didn’t know how to recreate the scenario, and he definitely didn’t want to turn into a vampire. He didn’t even think he could as a necromancer.

Raylan was trying to remember what the next mark was when he saw two black glowing orbs floating in the air coming closer and closer and his cross burned against chest again. He tried to knock the lights away with his bound hands holding his hat, but it went through them like they were a hologram. The flowing eyes advanced on Raylan until they merged with his vision and faded.

Bo’s moan was salacious. “My god. Your power.”

Raylan knew the vampire had given him the second mark.

“Ya know, got some friends from down south—down your way—who wanted me to kill you.”

“You mean Miami?”

“I mean Miami. Wanted you out of the way. What a waste that woulda been,” Bo said. “I saw the shape Bowman was in when you raised him. No comparison to the rotted mess your aunt sent me for the mines. Those Miami vampires got no clue what they’re dealing with when it comes to you, do they? Fools even sent you and that other fancy-pants marshal a present one night. For what good it did.”

“You sent the zombies?” Raylan asked.

“Nah, I had better plans for you. But they had some witch doctor who thought killer zombies would do the job.”

“That witch doctor give you something, maybe an armband, to sabotage your miners with?” Raylan asked.

“My son was becoming a bit of a pest, getting in the way of our plans down here.”

“So you set him up with the Vaudun scene at the church.”

“Got him out of the way,” Bo said. “Though didn’t expect him to die in jail.”

“Not so soon anyway. He would have faced death penalty for magical malfeasance for the death of your foreman.”

“Eventually.”

Raylan smiled. “You don’t even know, do you?”

“Know what?”

Raylan shook his head.

“You know, they used to kill necromancers,” Bo said. “I can see why. You’re like mainlining heroin. I’m beginning to see what Boyd saw in you back in the day. You two were such little cocksuckers.”

Bo knelt down and loosened Raylan’s tie. “This has to go.” He pulled the tie off and ripped open the throat of Raylan’s shirt and saw the chain of his cross.

“What’s this?” Bo said, the cross glowing as he snapped the silver chain by yanking it from Raylan’s neck, tossing it away as the silver burned his hand. “No holy objects.”

The closer Bo got, the more Raylan thought the vampire smelled rotten. Most vampires smelled dry and metallic—faintly like a penny in a sweaty palm while some people said the smell reminded them of snakes. With two vampire marks from Bo mingling with his necromancy, Raylan could see and smell Bo for what he was. As a kid, he always thought Boyd’s daddy was like some kind of “Deliverance” nightmare that gave hillbillies a bad name. But as the undead, he was worse. He’d been using some kind of glamour to keep people from realizing just how hideous he was. He bet most people in Harlan County thought Bo had somehow managed to get better looking in death. But the smell, the scraggly beard, the pocked nose, the greasy hair… Raylan turned his face away as Bo drew closer.

Raylan was wondering how a vampire even managed to have greasy hair in death without normal sweat and oil gland production when Bo struck his neck.

He dug his fangs deep into Raylan’s neck, piercing his carotid, and he screamed out. There was no glamour to soften the strike, to make his mind romanticize the bite. Why was that? Was it his necromancy or the human servant ties binding him to Bo that stripped away the vampire’s power over him, letting him see Bo for what he was? Raylan wanted to struggle and fight but feared jerking away would tear his artery and he wouldn’t heal before he bled out. The way his luck was running that day, he’d die without taking Bo with him. He’d hate to do that to Tim.

Bo drank deeply, and Raylan could feel the power fluxing between them. He didn’t even realize how his thoughts had been lingering on Tim, longing for him until Bo pulled away.

“You think of Death? You think he’ll come and save you?” Bo demanded.

Raylan actually did think that.

“You do.”

Raylan realized then that Bo was in his mind.

“Oh, I am,” Bo said. “You think your precious Death is going to come rescue you? I’ve got news for you, you pissant little faggot, I will drain him to the point of death, then let him die while he watches me rape you ’til you bleed.”

Raylan thought of a wall. A brick wall. A giant white wall made of bricks shining with pure light. Holy light. He piled the bricks around his head, letting them circle his mind.

“Drop the wall Raylan.”

Raylan didn’t reply. He just layered bricks in his mind along the wall building it higher and higher.

“Drop it now, servant!” Bo shouted, his voice reverberating around them.

Raylan felt Bo’s power pressing down on him, but he was unmoved to relent. He was actually surprised to realize he’d retained his free will at all, and instinctively he knew this was connected with his necromancy. Raylan imagined the wall around his mind glowing hot.

“You little shit,” Bo said, the pressure of his will pulling away. “You have to sleep sometime, little Necromancer. I’m going to go feed, you’re draining me with all your needy healing.” Bo turned and clomped out toward the door. 

“That’s three marks. One more.”

Raylan shuddered. “Not that it matters.”

“You’re right, it don’t matter,” Bo said. “We’re already bound eternal.”

Until I kill you, Raylan thought from behind his brick wall. Of course, killing Bo would take Raylan right along with him.

 

Raylan got a better look at the room in Bo’s absence. Concrete cinder blocks lined the walls and floor that Raylan assumed was coal underneath. The ceiling was dusty gray-black coal with support poles scattered around the room. Bo had left through a doorway with a metal door, but the room had two open doorways that went off in two other directions.

The décor was Kentucky redneck—graced with a Confederate flag nailed into one wall and under it a collection of mismatched furniture, including a sofa covered in a burlap material patterned with giant blue flowers circa 1970. Raylan figured it was as older than he was.

Raylan pushed himself up, using the side of the wall and the strength in his legs. He walked the room, looking for potential weapons, including his cross. He found the necklace on the other side of the room and put it in the front pocket of his jeans. He’d prefer the back in case Bo heated it up again, but the cuffs limited his reach. Odds were Bo would be back and he didn’t want to break loose from them until he had some long daylight hours to put between him and the vampire.

Raylan continued his search and saw some potential in the coffee table, but decided to bide his time. He propped his hat back on his head, planning to do what he could to hang onto it. His sidearm and backup were gone—he assumed Arlo had them. Raylan then had a pained thought at the idea of Helen luring him to Harlan, but pushed the thought away. She’d made her bed.

He stretched out with his mind, scanning for other vampires, and was surprised at how much more sensitive his necromancy felt. Nonetheless, he was alone, as far as the dead were concerned. He tried the metal door and found it had to be bolted from the outside. He pushed his good shoulder into it and got nowhere fast.

Raylan headed into the two other rooms to investigate. They were small rooms, one barely big enough to hold the two coffins propped up on their ends against one wall. The second room held only one coffin. He sniffed, and it smelled of Bo Crowder’s rancidity.

He’d seen his share of daytime resting places for city masters and this was by far the most pathetic. He went back into the main room and took a seat in one of the worn-down recliners, crossing his boots on the coffee table. If he was going to be captive, he’d be damned if he was going to do it on a concrete floor. It’s not like Bo was going to kill him for daring to sit on the furniture.

Bo was in the same position as Raylan. They killed themselves by killing each other.

 

Raylan could feel the two vampires approaching before the door actually creaked open. It was late, or early. Even underground, he could feel his necromancy marking the night receding.

Johnny Crowder and two fairly young vampires Raylan didn’t know came in.

“Johnny.” Raylan nodded his head, not bothering to get up or even shift his position. The two vampires eyed him and then wandered into one of the other rooms. As close as it was to dawn, he bet they needed their coffins.

Johnny laughed at him. “Lookit you. Even hogtied, you act all high and mighty.”

“Where’s Bo?”

“What? You miss your boyfriend already? Haven’t even been here a whole day.”

Raylan scowled, squinting.

Johnny threw a greasy paper bag on the coffee table and dropped a half-gallon jug of orange juice next to it. “Bo says to eat. Says your supposed to be charging him up, not the other way around.”

Raylan eyed the bag and stood up. “Don’t suppose as the token human you know where I might find the  facilities around here.”

Johnny gave him a harsh look and stepped out the door, shutting it behind him. Raylan heard the bolt hit, then Johnny came back a few minutes later with a construction bucket he dropped in the corner of the room.

“Only the best for Raylan Givens.” He turned and left, bolting the door again behind him.

***

 

Tim and the harpies walked out of the woods together into the center of the preserve the next morning.

Rachel and Louie packed their bags back into the van while Tim took some time in the bathroom to get the blood out from under his fingernails and pick the leaves out of his hair.

Standing by the van, the harpies surrounded Tim. He felt a little bad for Louie, who clearly was torn between wanting them to love him and being a bit afraid of them, and that affected his interactions with them. Tim wondered if there wasn’t something to Raylan’s theory that Louie was secretly some kind of lycanthrope that the harpies normally ate for breakfast.

“When we get a break in this case, I’ll drive down and we can hunt again, okay?” Tim said.

As a group, they nodded. One of them was scenting his hair again. But it was Celaeno, with the dark feathers, who stole the show.

Normally, their eyes reminded him of bald eagles—light yellow irises textured like hammered gold foil centered with sharp, black pupils that grew and shrank as they took in or dismissed the world around them in.

That morning Celaeno’s pupils overtook her eyes, turning them completely black. Her wings arched high causing them to look half-spread and stiff.

“Teem. Ut salvificem Necromancer…” she paused, “…vos subditi… Vita tua.”

“Kel… what?” Tim croaked. “Necromancer? Raylan.” He whipped around to find Louie, who was standing open-mouthed and staring rapt. “Fane,” Tim gritted out. “What did she say?”

“Um… something about saving a necromancer,” Louie started.

Tim stroked Calaeno’s dirty face with a thumb, “Kel… can you say it again?” Her eyes were still blacked over. He hoped she’d heard him and was even capable of repeating her words.

“Ut salvificem Necromancer… vos subditi… Vita tua.”

“To save the Necromancer, you submit your life?” Louie translated.

Rachel got out her cell and was typing furiously into her phone.

“Are you asking or telling me?” Tim asked.

“Translating. It would help if Latin wasn’t a dead language,” Louie said.

“What the hell does that mean?” Tim demanded.

“It means I’m sure I am missing something… like you must submit, you should submit, you might submit…” Louie said.

“Great. Because that wasn’t vague enough without losing something in the translation,” Tim said.

Rachel stopped typing. “I’m texting the translation to you, Tim. Or what we know of it.”

Tim cussed under his breath. “Fuck. Raylan. What did you get us into?” He rubbed his forehead.

“It’s a prophecy, I think,” Rachel said. “You said she’s known for that, right?” She directed her question to Louie who nodded.

“And I thought deer heart was bad,” Tim mumbled.

Calaeno began to come out of her stupor and looked upset, tears beginning to track in the dirt and blood left on her face from their hunt and games the night before.

“Hey. Hey, Kel, it’s all right,” Tim said.

“I always thought that the prophecies were a way of cursing enemies, but you’re not their enemy,” Louie said, sounding a bit too fascinated about the whole thing.

“I don’t think she can help it,” Tim said. She had her wings tucked in tight around her now, her head down. He reached out and patted the dark feathers on her shoulder. “It’s okay Kel,” he said. “I’ll still come hunt with you again.”

Louie translated his words and the harpy nodded. The tears had stopped, at least.

Tim hoped she was crying because of the trauma of prognostication and not grief over his pending demise or whatever she’d been predicting.  He was better off not asking for clarification.

 

Tim climbed into the passenger side of the van and put the keys into the ignition.

“I take it this means I’m driving,” Rachel said.

“I ran all night,” Tim said. “You talked to Raylan this morning?” Tim had his phone out looking for a signal but had no bars. He felt unsettled by the part of the prophecy—to save the necromancer. But it was still early. Raylan wasn’t known for waking up early unless he had proper motivation.

“No, but the cell service here sucks.”

“I see that. I guess I’ll call him when we get more bars,” Tim said, then tapped into his Ranger training that allowed him to sleep when he needed to, and fell asleep for the next two hours of the trip back to Lexington.

***

 

Raylan found himself alone, but waited until he was sure the sun had risen to eat. The cuffs didn’t help but they didn’t hinder him so he let them be for the moment. He pulled two items wrapped in foil out from the brown Kraft paper bag. He opened the larger one, still warm, and smelled it—finding his senses were more acute, acute enough to know without a doubt he was looking at fried chicken livers and gizzards. Raylan shuddered; he’d always hated them. Arlo had tanned his hide more than once for refusing to eat them as a kid. There was a hunk of something that smelled sweet in the bag, too. Raylan pulled it out and peeked in the foil, then sniffed. He would have bet his hat that it was his Aunt Helen’s strawberry jam cake. He couldn’t swear to it, but he was pretty sure he didn’t imagine how the buttermilk icing carried a hint of guilt. As much as he loved fried chicken, he didn’t like chicken innards—fried or otherwise. But he didn’t know when he’d be offered food again, so he ate.

He was shocked to discover that it wasn’t all that bad, which made him wonder if Bo was still awake somewhere. That’s when that little girl Nikki from Frankfort came to mind; she’d sat with them sipping some caramel froufrou coffee drink she didn’t particularly care for like it was the best thing in the world. Apparently, Bo Crowder missed sitting down to a mess of livers and gizzards and intended to appease his craving through Raylan.

Raylan took a long swig from the orange juice and thought that he’d have to find a way to off Bo before his waistline matched the vampire’s.

After eating, he stretched out with his necromancy and scanned the area around him. Still only the two vampires, both fairly young. He didn’t feel Bo anywhere near, so he built his mental brick wall in his mind again. Raylan listened by the door and heard nothing on the other side.

He went over to the one of the doorways and rubbed the chains on his cuffs up against the corner edge of the cement bricks, roughing up the texture on the outside of the links. Raylan then began twisting one wrist around one way, then another to lock up the chain connecting the cuffs until the locked links jammed against the swivel on his left hand cuff. Using his dominant hand to put force on the locked chains against the swivel, he broke the cuffs apart.

His hands free, he set the leftover OJ on the floor and flipped the beat-up coffee table over onto its side. He kicked one of the legs loose, then braced the table with his foot, and tried to pry the loose leg off. Surprisingly, it came off easily in his hands. Raylan had gained strength from Bo’s marks. He went to work on the other legs, pulling them off one by one, then using the concrete walls to file the tips of the legs into sharp points.

Raylan concentrated on locking down his thoughts and slipped into the other room to rid Harlan of two vampires. Killing two vampires for being accessories to the kidnapping of an LEO was a solid legal defense for an executioner. No warrants necessary.

 

Since he didn’t have the means for removing their heads and hearts, he sacrificed two of his stakes, leaving them in the dead vamps. He didn’t think they were powerful or old enough to heal, but he didn’t want to risk it. Unsure of the time, he settled down with his last two stakes to wait for nightfall. Raylan tried to remember what he’d read about vampire powers and the mental connection between master and servant. Could he risk sleep? He didn’t think so. If Bo could slip into his mind while he was awake, he’d be in his dreams too.

Raylan built up his mental walls and wondered where the hell Tim was.

***

 

Tim and Rachel rolled up behind the courthouse about eleven in the morning and dropped Louie off. When Tim woke up from his nap on the road, he’d tried calling Raylan and got his voicemail again. Rachel called Art and found out the chief hadn’t seen or heard from his partner since the day before, so they had him look up the remote GPS on Raylan’s Town Car. The last known location was Harlan.

“Can you do the same with his cell phone?” Tim asked.

Rachel talked to Art about it. He told her the cell phone was with the car.

“Last number?”

Rachel repeated the number Art gave her and Tim dialed, recognizing the voice answering.

“Helen Givens.”

“Who is this?”

“Deputy Tim Gutterson. Where’s Raylan?”

“Why are you asking me—”

“Don’t. You were the last one to talk to him, and he’s gone. Where is he Helen?”

She sighed. “I didn’t know. Arlo made me call him about the money…. I thought he’d just give it to us. See, Bo was tryin’ to collect on the zombies.”

“What happened?”

“I locked myself in the basement.”

“Because?”

“Raylan said to.”

“And?”

“Arlo took Raylan to Bo,” she said.

“And you let him?”

“No letting about it. I didn’t know ’til they were gone.”

“You know where Bo’s keeping Raylan?”

“No.”

“Does Arlo?”

“Probably, but he’d taken off for the hills,” she said.

“You sure you don’t have any idea where Bo would keep him?”

“Even if you find him, it’ll be too late,” she said. “He never shoulda come back.”

“He didn’t really have a choice.”

“Was a reason I wanted him out. Man with his kind of gift has no place around these parts.”

“Why’s that?”

“Out in the world, the vampires think he’s the big, bad boogey man,” Helen said. “But in Harlan, they know different. They know how to use someone from the Grant line with his kind of gift.”

“You mean his necromancy.”

“I’m sorry. Tell him I’m sorry.”

He ended the call.

 

“Anything?” Rachel asked, after hanging up with Art.

“His father traded him to Bo Crowder.”

“For what?”

“Money probably. Take me to the hotel,” Tim told Rachel. “I need my truck.”

“I’ll call Art and we’ll start a search.”

“Rachel, I need to know where you tucked Nahtoo.”

“Art’ll have your badge.”

“Let him take it.”

***

 

Tim knocked on the door of the safe house in a nondescript condo community where Nahtoo was staying in protective custody. A deputy marshal let him in and perused his credentials.

“No one told me you were coming,” the man said, clearly unhappy with the visit. Tim didn’t recognize him and expected that next time they met, he wouldn’t be any friendlier—not after the chief had a piece of the guy for what Tim had planned.

“Didn’t know I was coming until a short time ago either,” Tim said.

“This is against all protocol—”

“Just need a word with the witness,” Tim explained, as Nahtoo peered around the corner from the kitchen.

She approached him, dressed in a light sweater, jeans and bare feet. He noticed she’d been primping; her toenails were a eye-singeing shade of hot pink. He wondered which deputy she wheedled into buying her nail polish.

“Teem?” she said, her gold eyes shining, then turned concerned. “Something is wrong.”

“I thought you couldn’t read minds in girl form,” Tim said.

 “You wear your heart,” she said and tapped his bicep, “aquí.”

“You know, I really don’t.”

“Then why do I see it?”

He sighed. “I don’t have time for this. I need a favor.”

“What favor?”

“Raylan’s gone. Bo has him. But you can sense him.”

She nodded. “These men you work with, they will take me and hide me. Pero… I cannot shift. Not for many, many years. O nunca. Maybe never again.”

“And that’s not going to work for you, is it?” Tim said, shaking his head at how little the rest of the Marshals Service understood about the preternatural population.

He understood why they wanted to her to stay in human form, but knew it would mean a miserable life. She would feel trapped in one form again--just human instead of dragon. Weredragons were rare and all but unheard of in the states. The Witness Security division would set her up in a new life. If she shifted once they’d established her new identity, it would get around the preternatural community quickly that there was a dragon living in the US. Being human and not understanding a lycanthrope’s need to shift, they’d advise her never to shift again. Tim thought about where she could possibly go instead.

“You know a place that would though,” she said.

“How do you know that?”

“You smell like mis pajaritos.”

“I can’t take you there. You’d be too big a target together.”

“But you know a better place.”

He nodded, realizing he did. “All right. I'll take you there if you help me find Raylan.”

Tim would have taken her there anyway, but let her read that on his arm. He needed to find Raylan and she could help.

***

 

By three that afternoon, Tim and Nahtoo started on their list of Bo Crowder’s businesses Tim, Raylan and Tom Bergen had made the day they’d been hunting down Nahtoo and the harpies.

Tim and Nahtoo planned on the way down. Nahtoo couldn’t shift back and forth and would have to stay in dragon form. Most lycanthropes managed one shift a day. Two shifts within a short amount of time would lay most of them up for a good twelve hours. Since Nahtoo had essentially terrorized Harlan a few days before, weakening her defenses was a bad idea. Especially when Tim was her only backup.

Tim stopped at a Pilot Travel Center in Corbin to gas up. He bought a burner phone and an armband for an MP3 player. He programmed the burner number into speed dial on his phone and showed Nahtoo how to use it.

Art had been calling him for an hour now and he needed the line clear and his phone charged at 100 percent. Tim finally called Rachel to tell them to back off and call the burner if they needed him. She translated the yelling he could hear in the background. They were searching too, starting with the Given’s house. They’d recovered Raylan’s car, cell phone and stepmother, but Arlo was in the wind and Raylan was missing.

“I’ll call you when we find him,” Tim said.

Rachel relayed that to Art and held out the phone. Tim heard the chief yell. “Awfully sure of yourself Gutterson. I’m putting you on unpaid leave for this bullshit.”

“You hear that?” she said.

“Tell him I’ll take it. Could use a day off.”

“Next time, grow a pair and call Art yourself. I’m not your chief whisperer,” she said. “And good luck.”

“Thanks.”

 

Now all Tim had to do was wait for Nahtoo to change. Well, that and find Raylan and kill Bo Crowder. They picked a search area that was isolated first.

Nahtoo undressed while Tim turned his back.

“Stand back,” she said.

“Why?”

“You have never been around a shifting licántropo?” she asked.

Tim thought about it for a moment. “Oh, the goo.” Lycanthrope emitted a wave of clear, sticky liquid when they shifted. As a hunter, Tim had seen it wet, drying, dried…. had tested it for DNA, but had never seen where it came from.

Her laughter was high and soft. “Sí, the goo,” she said, her voice grew strained at the word “goo.”

After her shift started, Tim turned to watch and missed the goo emission again. He decided that modesty didn’t apply when she shifted from woman to dragon. In all honesty, shifting looked painful. That much popping had to hurt.

When she was in dragon form, she stepped forward and held out a leg for Tim to wrap with the MP3 case carrying his phone. Then, Nahtoo took flight, much to Tim’s awe. He’d never seen her fly. She’d been too hurt the day they’d cut free her bolts.

They’d broke up the search areas into chunks on a grid. Nahtoo was flying the first one, feeling for Raylan. Tim climbed into the SUV and watched her progress on his laptop, tracking an app on his phone’s GPS.  When she cleared that part of the grid, she circled back to him, this time landing on his SUV and he thought of where they would go next. He liked working with her. All he had to do was think of the next grid, picture it in his head, and she’d read his mind. He’d had a spotter in the Rangers who knew him well enough to nearly read his mind, but nothing like this.

 

Tim had been worried all day, but when most of the sun had been swallowed by the horizon he had to fight the urge to fidget. He couldn’t say fidgeting wasn’t in his makeup, but he’d locked it down during his years in the military. Knowing the local vampires would be waking up any minute, and that Raylan had been with Bo for more than a day set Tim on edge. He and Nahtoo needed to find him soon. They’d searched all of the immediate Harlan area, including Bo’s known businesses. What was left were some of the outlying mines. He decided they should next head to the one where Rachel had broken her arm—Martin’s Fork Mine.

***

Raylan never slept that day. He put down the two sleeping vampires and waited for nightfall or what was coming through the door next. Or both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to tag me, I'm on Tumblr. Only, the thing is there are 15-gazillion versions of people called Cherlock. I felt a bit redundant when I realized there were so freaking many of us.  
> My primary Tumblr is ancient and so not updated: [Cher-locked](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/cher-locked)  
> I made a secondary blog on Tumblr to start putting some of my head cannon in one spot that wasn't my research folder for this fic. [Mouth of this Holler](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mouth-of-this-holler)  
> You should know before you go there, I don't tag because I'm old and don't care. : ) But it's a way to drop me a line.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: rape and non consent.
> 
> Shout out to [ Jonjo ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonjo/pseuds/Jonjo) for beta-reading for this chapter. Y'all would be downright confused in some places if not for Jonjo's sharp eye catching all the places I muddled up the wording or dropped a homophone like "heroine" when I meant "heroin." I SO did that in the last chapter.

Tim was nearly to the turnoff for the mountain road winding the way up to Martin’s Fork Mine when his burner rang displaying his cell phone number signaling that Nahtoo had sensed Raylan. He checked the laptop and found Nahtoo’s location at the mine. He took the turn, then floored it on the straight-aways and grudgingly slowed down when he came up on the curves and zigzags of a switchback.

“Rachel! We got a location on him,” he said. “Martin’s Fork—the mine where you broke your arm.”

“I recall,” she said. He heard her call out the news to Art. “We’re heading that way. You know what we’re up against yet?”

“No. Not even to the top of the mountain,” he said.

“Then how did you—”

“I think the words you’re going to be looking for later are ‘plausible deniability’.”

“Nahtoo.”

“I expect I’ll get two vacations out of this when Art finds out.”

 

***

Raylan felt Bo coming before he saw him. He hid in the doorway to one of the smaller rooms with his cross ready, planning to push Bo back with the cross, then attack him with a stake. He’d concentrated on his blank mental wall, but must have failed. The first person through the door was Johnny Crowder.

“Bo said to give me the cross,” Johnny said, approaching Raylan with his hand out.

Raylan pulled the cross closer to his body to draw Johnny in, then swung at him with the end of the stake. Johnny ducked and backed away, grabbing Raylan’s arm holding the stake and yanking him into the bigger room. Johnny pulled the stake away from Raylan, tossing it aside.

“The cross, Raylan,” Johnny repeated.

“If you want it, you’re gonna have to take it from me,” Raylan said. It wasn’t very big. Pure silver and less than an inch tall, but it was enough to blind a vampire momentarily and push him back. He wrapped his fist around it.

“All right,” Johnny said, and threw himself into Raylan, tackling him to the ground. He rammed the wrist of the hand that Raylan was grasping the cross with into the floor over and over, causing the metal cuff still attached to dig into his wrists eventually hitting a pressure point causing his hand to fall open and the cross to drop to the floor. Johnny swiped the cross and backed out the door.

“Got it, Uncle Bo,” Johnny said, breathing hard.

“Good, now get it and you the fuck out of here.”

“You want me to lock the door?”

“Not with me on this side of it, moron,” Bo said.

Johnny made his retreat.

“Where are my vampires, Necromancer?” Bo asked, his voice low and deadly.

“Would you believe they went to get someone to eat?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Bo said, advancing on Raylan. “You’re gonna pay for that you little cocksucker.”

Raylan backed away as Bo advanced, almost like a dance until Bo pinned Raylan against a wall. He grabbed the marshal and threw him to the floor. Raylan sprawled, his hat falling next to him.

“Yer takin’ the fourth mark.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, you will,” Bo said. “And then you’ll bend to my will.”

No, I won’t.

“Oh, but you will,” Bo said.

The vampire grabbed a fistful of Raylan’s hair from the crown of his head and dragged him up to his knees in front of Bo.

“You know, I knew what you and my son used to do together,” Bo said. He pulled Raylan’s head back, yanking hard. 

“Long time ago Bo,” Raylan said. “Got nothing to do with you.”

Bo held Raylan’s head fast, using preternatural strength Raylan couldn’t hope to match.

With his other hand, Bo pulled the tongue of his belt out through his big metal buckle and opened his jeans. He dug around in his shorts to pull out his limp organ. Raylan winced and moved his eyes away since Bo held his head firm. Vampires were known for not being able to get it up until after they fed. But Bo’s complexion looked rosy—like a well-fed vampire, so Raylan thought the roots of his impotency were buried elsewhere.

Bo was a rapist. Nahtoo and the harpies had told them as much. Intellectually, he knew this was about power, not sex, but there was a part of him that wanted to panic. He steeled himself not to give in to it.

“You put that where you’re thinking, you won’t have it very long,” Raylan said, his voice low and even.

Bo laughed at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Raylan raised his eyebrows looked Bo in his glassy dark eyes. “Odds are, being a vampire of your standing, it’ll eventually grow back, but how long is that gonna take and how much do you think that’s gonna hurt?”

“You won’t,” Bo taunted him. “You love it.” He shoved the head of his limp organ against Raylan’s clamped lips.

“Open up Necromancer,” Bo said. “Gonna own you.”

Raylan’s eyes narrowed as his determination grew. Bo just dropped his dick and pinched Raylan’s nose shut with his finger and thumb. 

Added strength, endurance, and healing didn’t mean shit when Raylan was still human and needed oxygen. Panic got the better of him, after all. Instead of thinking it through and locking his jaw shut and sucking in air through clenched teeth, Raylan held his breath until he couldn’t take it and had to open his mouth to gasp for air. Bo used his speed to force himself into Raylan’s mouth at that moment.

The first thing Raylan did was gag, then he followed through with his promise and bit down hard, not letting go.

Then the small room turned cacophonous. Bo’s scream rattled Raylan’s eardrums. Blood poured from the wound—apparently Bo had fed. Then, he heard another vampire add his voice to the noise. 

“Daddy!” Boyd yelled. Raylan looked up to find Boyd on his father’s back, almost like he was riding him piggyback before the young vampire sank his new fangs into his father’s neck. The sight of Boyd’s throat working as he took long drags on Bo’s blood stunned Raylan enough for him to unlock his jaws.

Raylan gagged trying to spit out Bo’s blood. Some blood must have run down the back of his throat because he felt the whooshing cold power of more death magic surging into him, along with a stronger sense of Bo. Even though his son was doing everything he could to drain him, the vampire laughed, and Raylan knew he’d been had: the fourth mark required a human servant to drink his master’s blood.

Raylan crab-walked away from where Bo had fallen to his knees, ridden down by Boyd drawing out his life force. And Raylan’s.

As Bo lost energy, he was drawing more from Raylan, taking him with him. “Get him off me, Necromancer,” Bo said.

Raylan ignored him, but noticed another man sliding into the room as Boyd forced Bo down to the floor. Raylan wondered if Boyd was planning to completely drain Bo. Then he recalled that the vampires around Harlan and Kentucky seemed to attach some kind of power transference with draining a master vampire.

Boyd was thrusting himself to the top of the food chain.

“Stop him, wolf,” Bo stuttered.

Raylan was getting woozy; Bo was weak and using Raylan’s energy to push his will on the werewolf who’s slipped into the room.

Boyd pulled away from Bo’s neck. “Devil,” he cautioned.

The man seemed torn between the two vampires.

“Wolf’s my animal to call, son,” Bo said, his voice thready but sure.

“I know Daddy, they’re mine too,” Boyd said and smiled showing off his bloody fangs.

“Then just stop this and we can come to a solution advantageous to both of us,” Bo bargained. “Don’t know why you just didn’t say you wanted to join the family business.” Bo shook his head, then added, “Wolf, obey me, change.”

Devil’s body exploded into a spray of clear discharge around him, his clothes either tearing or falling away.

“Wolf, attack Boyd,” Bo ordered.

Devil, in the form of a gray wolf, turned on Boyd growling.

“Johnny, shoot Devil,” Boyd said. “And drag him into one of other rooms.”

“But Boyd,” Johnny balked.

“He’ll heal when he shifts. It’ll wear him out enough Daddy can’t control him.”

Johnny shot the wolf in the hind legs, causing Devil to emit a high bark of pain, then he was shifting back into a man. Johnny grabbed his arm and tugged him across the cinderblock floor into the room where Raylan had left two vampire carcasses earlier that day.

 

Raylan fell back when he felt Bo pull on another wave of his energy.

“Now what I don’t understand is why you’re not dead yet Daddy,” Boyd said.

Bo laughed. “My new pet necromancer.”

Boyd’s eyes landed on Raylan. “That’s why you’re here.”

“What? Did you really think I was here for your Daddy’s sparkling personality?” Raylan asked, his voice too tired to sound appropriately snarky.

“Well, Raylan I didn’t want to presume.”

“Not here by choice,” Raylan whispered.

“He bound you to him?” Boyd asked, his voice softer.

“Also, not my choice,” Raylan said. He felt like he was going to pass out. “Kill him Boyd.”

“But Raylan, my friend, that’ll kill you.”

“Not friends.”

“Not nice,” Boyd said. “Dewey! Johnny! Go up to the surface and call nine-one-one. Tell ’em we got a dyin’ marshal down here.”

“’Fraid I can’t do that Boyd,” Johnny said. He was backing out of the room with his gun raised. “He’ll have me put to death as an accessory for all Bo’s bullshit if you do that. If we just let him die, we won’t have a problem.”

“All right,” Boyd said and waved him off. “Go, but don’t come back.”

“What? We had a deal—”

“Johnny…” Bo started.

“If you think my Daddy won’t kill you the minute I’m gone, cousin Johnny, you’re stupider than I thought. Stay and do my Daddy’s bidding, or leave and do mine. Figure out quick though,” Boyd said, “Who are you more afraid will live through this night?”

Johnny left.

“Dewey.”

“No. No way. That’s guy’s a real asshole,” Dewey said, “he put my kin away. Let him die Boyd.”

“Can’t do that, Dewey,” Boyd said. “We need to keep him alive.”

“I’m telling you, Boyd, I won’t do it.”

“You will,” Boyd said, standing up and releasing his father. Boyd grabbed Dewey’s chin and pulled the him closer, looking into his eyes.

“Careful Boyd,” Raylan cautioned, he could feel Boyd’s vampire powers rising. Raylan knew the younger vampire was going to roll Dewey—which was against the law because it stole away the human’s free will and gave the rolling vampire the traction to call that human again and have total power over him, not that Raylan was in a position to do anything about it.

Raylan just hoped the roll wasn’t too deep or Dewey might not have much will left. Boyd was too new a vampire to understand the nuances.

“Dewey Crowe, you will go up to surface and call nine-one-one and bring someone down here to save this marshal,” Boyd said, his voice resonated with power he put into rolling Dewey.

“Yes, Boyd.” Dewey turned on his heel and marched out.

“Gotta be careful with that Boyd… roll him too deep, he’ll lose all his will. You’ll end up with Dewey Crowe for a bride, if you didn’t already.”

“A bride?”

“Like a bride of Dracula. You’ll leave him with no will of his own,” Raylan whispered. “Illegal, too.”

“Why Raylan, are you gonna arrest me for tryin’ to save your life?”

Raylan dropped flat to the floor and stared at the ceiling. “Boyd, I can’t get up at the moment, much less arrest you.”

 

***

Tim expected the first person he’d see would have been Nahtoo, but he ran smack into the guy from the video surveillance who’d picked up Boyd Crowder from the morgue. Raylan was right. There was no mistaking the teeth around his neck.

The man was frantically holding up his cell phone trying for a signal.

“Dewey Crowe?” Tim asked as he approached.

“What d’you want?” he asked.

“I’m Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson, I’m looking—”

“You’re the police? Nine-one-one?”

“Pretty close. I’m looking for—”

“Boyd said I had to get you. You have to come help this asshole marshal down in the mine,” Dewey said. “The Executioner.”

“All right, you got my attention,” Tim said. “Take me to him.”

 

Tim couldn’t make sense of gator-teeth boy. The guy was on drugs or something, but he led Tim down a long, dimly lit coal tunnel—thankfully more spacious than the strip mine drill holes he’d had to crawl through to lure out the zombie miners.

“They’re right up here,” Dewey said, pointing to a doorway with a light shining out into the shadowy tunnel. 

“All right,” Tim said. He pulled his weapon and approached the door.

 

“US Marshals, hands up where I can see ’em,” Tim called out, peeling off the wall and into the room gun first.

“Marshal,” Boyd Crowder said, holding his hands up.

“I brought nine-one-one Boyd,” Dewey interrupted, following Tim into the room. “Just like you told me to.”

“Dewey, go sit in the corner and shut up.”

“All right Boyd,” Dewey said. He wandered over to the corner, slid down the wall, and rocked himself slowly. 

Tim ignored him and pointed his weapon at Boyd, then shifted it to Bo Crowder laid out on the floor.

“Kill Bo Tim,” Raylan said. “Tell them I gave over the warrant to you.”

Tim’s finger tightened on the trigger when Boyd interrupted him, using his vampire speed to appear out of nowhere in Tim’s line of sight.

“Marshal, if you kill my Daddy, you’ll be killin’ Raylan.”

Tim’s attention shifted to Raylan, who nodded his head sharply once.

“What? How?”

“Human servant. Bo forced the marks on me,” Raylan said. “Tim, you have to kill him. There’s no other way out to get them off. I won’t be bound to… that.”

“No,” Tim said. “I’m not risking your death. There’s gotta be another way. Bo survived killing his vampire sire, right?”

“Sure Tim, why don’t you go ahead and ask him. See if he’ll tell you how to free his new battery backup,” Raylan said.

“All right. Mr. Crowder. How did you survive killing your master?”

Bo laughed thinly, and Raylan felt another wave of torpidity hit him.

“Shit,” Raylan slurred. “He’s pulling on my… power to heal, I think.”

“What’s wrong with Bo?” Tim asked.

“Boyd tried to drain him.”

“All right. I’m going to go up high enough to get a signal and call for a medic. When they come down, we’ll get you on life support and I’ll fulfill the warrant,” Tim said.

“Tim,” Raylan said, “your gun?” Raylan stretched his hand out to Tim.

Tim shook his head.

“Your backup then. Don’t leave me without a weapon,” Raylan begged.

Tim’s pained gaze shifted between Bo and Raylan. “Raylan I can’t. I won’t let you go.”

***

 

About five minutes up the mine shaft Tim got ahold of Rachel.

“Rachel, I need an air evac or ambulance unit up here as soon as you can get it,” he said. “Raylan’s metaphysically tied to a dying vamp. If the vamp dies, so does Raylan. Unless we find a way to keep him going.”

***

 

Tim little more than cleared the door before Bo pulled hard on Raylan’s necromancy and dove for Boyd.

“You goddamned little shit.” Bo gritted out the words, conserving energy and probably trying not to attract the attention of the marshal they called Death, who’d just laid out a plan to kill him.

Father and son clawed and fought, Bo finally rolled Boyd over and wrapped an arm around his neck in a headlock. “Where do you get off thinkin’ you can come into my house and put me down? I may not be your maker, but I will damn well take you out of this world. You were a pain in my ass when you were alive, and you’re no different dead.”

Raylan took a deep breath. If Bo took out Boyd, he’d go after Tim next. Raylan concentrated on the wall in his mind and reached for his hat. Bo was too busy trying to pull Boyd’s head off to notice Raylan. He ripped out the lining of his hat and collected the two stakes that’d been left where they’d fallen when Bo and Johnny disarmed him earlier. 

Coiling the garrote Tim had hidden in his hat into two loops, Raylan dropped them over Bo’s head and pulled tight on both pegs. The silver in the piano wire sizzled into the big vampire’s neck. As Bo lost the focus he needed to tap into Raylan’s energy, Raylan found a second wind drawing energy back from the flailing vampire. Still, Raylan wasn’t sure he had enough strength to do the damage he needed to by pulling  on the garrote alone. He worked one of the stakes under the looser loop and began to twist the wood causing the garrote to wrap around it like a lever that forced the piano wire to cut deeper into Bo’s neck with every turn.

Bo had released Boyd, who immediately sunk his teeth into one of Bo’s arms, drawing whatever blood he could from his father’s dying body. Raylan cranked the stake until it was too tight for him to make it another half-round turn. He pushed Bo to the floor onto his back and took the other stake from his back pocket. Raylan aimed true and struck the vampire’s chest, using the strength Bo’d given him to drive the wood into the vampire’s heart.

“No!” he heard Tim yell from the doorway. 

As a man who’d once been advancing on middle age, Raylan had read about the warning signs of a heart attack. But the tightness in his chest from the slowing and stuttering of his heart was worse than advertised. He clutched his chest and went down to his knees first, then fell to the floor on his side.

He wasn’t sure when Tim had come to him, but he was there holding him.

“Tim.” Raylan half-smiled up at him. He touched his lover’s face. If the last thing he ever saw was Tim’s face, it was a good way to go. “Love you,” he mumbled as he faded away, falling asleep in his arms once more.

“Oh no you don’t,” Tim said. His fingers searched for a pulse at Raylan’s neck. Not finding one spurred Tim into action.

“Boyd—I already called for an air evac. Go up to the surface and lead them down here.”

He held his cheek over Raylan’s mouth a moment and found he wasn’t breathing, so he laid Raylan flat on the floor. He pressed Raylan’s forehead back and lifted his chin, pinched his nose, swiped a finger through his mouth and pushed two deep breaths into his lover’s lungs. Then, he started counting off compressions.

Tim pumped Raylan’s heart trying not to think of the broken words in Celaeno’s prophecy about saving Raylan. Tim’d gladly give his life to save him but couldn’t see how that would change anything at the moment.

Another two breaths and more compressions. Then another set, and another. Tim wasn’t sure how many sets he’d gone through when he noticed that Boyd hadn’t moved.

“Goddamn it Crowder. He did this saving you. Go. Up. To. The. Surface,” Tim ground out, then stopped to breath two deep breaths into Raylan’s lungs.

Boyd didn’t reply but Tim felt the hair on his arms raise up. He went back to administering the chest compressions that were circulating blood to Raylan’s brain when he felt movement under him, then Raylan started coughing. Tim stopped, feeling his eyes water in relief.

“Raylan?” Tim called to him. He tugged Raylan onto his side, holding him in a position that would keep him from choking if he got sick. He’d just got him breathing, and he’d be damned if he’d let him choke to death if he threw up.

Raylan coughed again and then looked up at Tim, grabbing his arm. “What happened? I felt… cold power.”

“I think you died for a while there,” Tim said. “Never do that to me again.”

Raylan reached for Tim’s hand, and then he pulled away, batting at something in front of his face, trying to dodge his head. “Uh-uh, no. No! Not again!”

Tim didn’t know what Raylan was fighting but suddenly Raylan’s eyes glowed a tawny gold.

“Raylan, why are your eyes glowing?” Tim asked.

Raylan rolled onto his back, breathing deeply enough that Tim could see his chest rise and fall. He rubbed his hand over his forehead and eyes. “Boyd, you son of a bitch.”

Tim sat back on his heels. “All right. What am I missing here?”

“Tim, if he takes one step closer to me, shoot him.”

“Raylan, my friend, is that any way to address a man who just saved your life?”

“You’re not a man. Shoot him anyway Tim.”

Tim drew his weapon and settled it in Boyd’s direction.

“Now Tim, may I call you Tim?” Boyd said.

“You can call me Deputy Gutterson. Or Death. Your choice.”

Boyd flashed him a bit of fang in his toothy smile. “Deputy Gutterson then. You and I both know Raylan here was well past being long for this world. I couldn’t stand by and watch a man who’d saved my life perish before our very eyes.”

“What did you do?”

“He marked me,” Raylan said. “Twice.”

“So if I shoot him…” Tim started.

“…you’ll be killing Raylan,” Boyd finished, holding his hands palm up in front of him. “Gentlemen, I think I’m going to take my leave.”

“Take your bride and your shot-up werewolf with you,” Raylan said. Even though he knew there was no way Devil was powerful enough to carry off a partial shift, Raylan wanted to float a trial balloon Boyd’s way to catch his reaction. “Oh Boyd? I’m not going to find Devil’s DNA on Emmitt Arnett body, am I?”

“Who’s Emmitt Arnett?” Boyd said, his eyes narrowing on Raylan.

“Friend of the Dixie Mafia. Not unlike your attorney friend, who sired you,” Raylan said. “What’s in it for the Dixie Mafia in having their favorite attorney turn you?”

“I wouldn’t know Raylan,” Boyd said. “As for Ms. Vespucci, well I believe the details of my enlightenment to the eternal fall under attorney-client privilege. Now, Dewey, go get Devil from the coffin room and let’s go.”

Dewey jumped up where he’d been rocking in place. “Yes Boyd,” he said, running off to do his bidding.

“Boyd, we could put you down for Dewey alone,” Raylan said.

“But you won’t. And I have immunity.”

“Only for what you did when you were alive,” Tim said.

“Don’t push it, Boyd,” Raylan said. “You’re pissing off Tim.”

Boyd strolled out with Dewey in his wake, dragging an unconscious Devil.

“Did he roll that guy? The gator boy?”

“Deep.”

“Can you walk?” Tim asked, standing up.

“You’re not carrying me. Again.” Raylan held out his hand, and Tim pulled him up. “We need to take Bo’s head and heart.”

Tim moved to look closer at Bo’s body. “Old school. Stake. Thought you said no one uses a stake anymore,” Tim said.

“I had to make do,” Raylan said.

“Stick on the garrote, too,” Tim said. “Nice improv.”

“You’re paying to get my hat relined,” Raylan murmured, picking up his hat and shoving the lining somewhere close to in-place before dropping it on his head. “After you put another garrote inside it.”

Tim smiled, enjoying that Raylan had made use of his toys. Then his eyes fell on the all the blood around Bo Crowder’s crotch.

“Raylan, why is there blood here?” Tim asked, pointing at Bo’s lower body.

He watched Raylan’s eyes shift over to Bo’s body, then away. “They’re going to find some teeth marks on Crowder’s penis. They’ll be mine.”

“Why?”

“He put it where it didn’t belong,” Raylan said evenly, meeting Tim’s eyes.

Tim nodded, then he slid the long blade he wore on hunts from the custom sheath down his back and removed Bo Crowder’s head.

“The rest of him will keep,” Tim said. “Is there anything back there we need to worry about.”

“Nah, just a couple dead vamps, guilty as accessories in the kidnapping of a law enforcement officer and endangering the life of a Federal Marshal.” Raylan shrugged. “Direct threat to my life.”

The dimple in Tim’s forehead deepened, and he checked the two adjoining rooms.

“More stakes. Impressive.”

“Making you hard, huh?”

Tim grinned, flashing Raylan his teeth. Raylan had no idea.

Sometimes, vampires could heal mortal wounds if given the time and space to heal. There was a reason executioners separated a vampire’s body from its head and heart. Purists went as far as to burn the parts separately and scatter the ashes in separate bodies of water. Tim had never been all that pure.

He just picked up Bo Crowder’s head by the hair and grabbed Raylan’s hand leading him down the long tunnel that would take them up to the surface.

***

 

Raylan followed Tim out the door, taken by the other marshal’s smell. With heightened senses, he now knew why the vampires were afraid of Tim before they knew his nickname was Death. Tim smelled like masculinity, sex, and danger. Raylan moved closer and breathed Tim in again trying to pick out what made his lover’s scent so alluring: a hint of coffee, gunpowder, an earthiness mixed with something spicy, and… banana?

“What’re you doing?” Tim stopped and smirked at Raylan. “You’re acting like the harpies.”

“Why do you smell like banana?”

Tim’s face fell slack in confusion, then understanding seeped in. “Oh, that's the Hoppe's number nine I clean my guns with… it kind of finds its way around.”

“You smell good,” Raylan said. “Anybody ever tell you that?”

Tim laced their fingers together. “Gotten a hint or two.”

 

They walked together in the dim light, talking for a moment, then walking together in comfortable silence. 

“I hate mines,” Raylan said.

“I know.” Tim squeezed his hand.

“How’d you find me?”

“Nahtoo’s out there.”

“Vasquez will want your badge. And your balls,” Raylan said, “Art’s just going to kill you.”

“Probably. We need to collect her before Art finds out.”

“Oh yeah, because he won’t notice a whole witness missing from her safe house.”

“It’s been a busy day.”

 

***

 

They were approaching the mouth of the mine.

“So, Boyd Crowder made you his human servant.” Tim slowed their pace to a stop.

“And saved my life by doing it,” Raylan offered, turning to Tim.

“That excuses it for you?”

“Hell no. I’ve had all the ‘Crowder Will’ forced on me that I can take today.”

“There had to be another way,” Tim said, shaking his head.

“Don’t know what. I remember passing out with you looking down at me, and then coughing myself awake when I felt the death magic,” Raylan said. “It wasn’t a bad way to go. All told.”

“Love you, too,” Tim said.

Raylan smiled and stepped close to give Tim a soft, lingering kiss. “You could have been off the hook for that. Was willing to pretend I forgot.”

“What if I don’t want you off the hook? And I don’t want you to forget?”

Raylan nodded. “This is exactly how I pictured the man of my dreams declaring his love for me.” He still had ahold of Tim’s hand but he let his eyes circle the mine and then land on Bo’s head, still clutched in Tim’s other hand.

Death had the grace to look bashful.

“I made do.” Tim popped his brow up once at Raylan, then started walking toward the open night ahead of them, tugging Raylan along behind him.

 

Tim could see red and blue flashing lights coloring the open sky ahead of them.

“I wonder what Boyd’s ulterior motives are for marking you,” Tim said.

“Apparently, I’m a heady experience.”

Tim half-laughed. “I already knew that.”

“Asshole.”

Tim grinned, then his smile turned cold and hard.

“Raylan,” Tim said casually and light, “you need to know that as soon as I figure out how to do it without taking you with him, I’m going to kill Boyd Crowder.”

“I expected no less.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter with an Epilogue to come--this week. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who keeps coming back to read this as it rolls out. Also, thank you to those who took the time to drop me comments and notes. Those mean a lot to me--inspired me to keep going.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue of "Into the Mouth of this Holler"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: rape and non-consent discussed
> 
> A huge thank-you to [ Jonjo ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonjo/pseuds/Jonjo) for beta-reading for this chapter.

Epilogue

Tim stood in front of Art’s desk, his hands resting idly at his hips, nodding. Raylan, watching through the glass wall from his desk, took that as a good sign that they’d make their flight. If Tim didn’t like what he was hearing, his arms would be folded across his chest—or his hand would be closer to his gun.

Raylan absently rubbed his chin, considering the last two weeks since he’d killed Bo Crowder. They’d been fraught with AUSA interviews, red tape, and waiting.

***

Art suspended Tim; the chief had no choice since Tim pulled a material witness out of protective custody and put her in the path of the very people the marshals service was trying to protect her from. He also wasn’t too pleased Tim brought her along on the hunt to uncover the vampire she’d testified against. But it was the ill-fated meeting with Nahtoo’s lawyer that was the tipping point that led to Tim’s suspension.

Tim, Raylan, Nahtoo and her attorney Catherine faced off with AUSA Vasquez and Art.

“My client has decided not to go into WITSEC at this time,” Catherine said. “The Marshals Service Witness Security protocols would not be tenable in her case.”

“How so?” Vasquez said.

“A lycanthrope needs to be able to shift. By asking her not to, you are unfairly chaining her in her human form.”

“Ms. Mason-Gillette, we can’t guarantee her safety outside our program. Deputy Gutterson’s rash actions notwithstanding, the Marshals Service is best qualified to protect her only if she stays in the program and agrees to follow the rules,” Vasquez said.

“Actually, we disagree,” Catherine said.

“Your client is not even in the country legally. She can’t fly or drive a car,” Vasquez said. “She has no money, no hope for legal employment, nowhere to live. I don’t see how she has any other option. She has no papers and is still in this country due only to her arrangement with my office.”

“That sounds a bit like you are threatening to have her deported,” Raylan commented, stunned.

“Would that make her see reason?” Vasquez replied.

Catherine’s was shocked into silence, stymied. She glanced over at Tim.

“Actually, I’m making arrangements for Nahtoo’s safety,” Tim said.

Vasquez laughed. “That’s perfect. Can you get her a green card while you’re at it? Maybe a new identity too? Jesus Art. If you don’t drop-kick his ass out of Kentucky, I swear I’m going to go to the director myself,” Vasquez said.

“Excuse me,” Tim said, standing up and leaving the room.

“He’s just walking out?” Vasquez stared at them, demanding an answer when none came he went on to build up to a rant.

Raylan sent a thin-lipped smile to a flummoxed Catherine and Nahtoo, held up one finger to Art to indicate they’d be back shortly, and followed Tim through the bullpen to the hallway. Raylan came up behind Tim in a secluded corner, finding him with his cell phone at his ear.

Tim turned to meet Raylan’s eyes as someone on the other end of the line must have picked up.

He winced at Raylan, then said, “It’s Thomas. I need a favor.” He never broke eye contact with Raylan, but he rubbed the back of his head while he talked.

Hands on his hips, Raylan listened while Tim succinctly explained what they needed for Nahtoo, including a new identity with all the requisite documents.

“Thought you left ‘Thomas’ behind after Nicaragua?” Raylan asked when Tim hung up.

“So did I.”

 

By the time they got back to the conference room Vasquez had gotten a call with the order to rush Nahtoo’s identity through, disregard WITSEC protocol, and release her to Deputy Gutterson. The AUSA turned on Tim after Nahtoo and Catherine left the room.

“What did he do?” Vasquez demanded. “Where did you go?”

“Bathroom.” Tim raised a thumb pointing in the direction of the men’s room. “That’s still allowed, right?” Tim said.

“Both of you?” Vasquez asked.

Raylan squinted his eyes at the attorney. “He gets lost easily,” Raylan lied languidly.

After that, to keep Tim assigned in Kentucky, Art had to back up his lip service to the AUSA’s office by suspending Tim.

 

While carrying Boyd’s two vampire marks had helped him heal any injuries he’d sustained, Raylan still ended up on desk duty pending a psych eval—forensic techs discovered the bite on Bo’s body before the exterminators could burn it. Even if they hadn’t, when Tim requested an air evac he’d disclosed Raylan’s metaphysical connection to Bo making it impossible to avoid an explanation of how Bo forced Raylan into becoming his human servant.

He maintained his kidnapping and Bo’s death was just part of a complicated execution; he had a warrant to kill the vampire after all. However, the state of Kentucky saw what Bo did as first-degree rape, and his assigned psychologist interpreted it as an assault on his mind, will, and body. Until he convinced her otherwise or fulfilled the designated number of mandated sessions, he was sidelined to ride his desk.

Raylan had had a couple nightmares about Bo—not of the vampire forcing himself physically on him, but of something more powerful than Raylan overwhelming his will. Raylan was convinced that if he hadn’t been a necromancer, then Bo could have rolled him like Boyd rolled Dewey. Then again, if he hadn’t been a necromancer, Bo wouldn’t have wanted him for a human servant to begin with. Bo had only been interested in the power that came from tying himself to someone who could control the dead.

The rape that bothered Raylan wasn’t a physical one. Raylan had a new fear—losing control of his psyche, his power, and becoming a monster’s monster. And the personification of that looming phobia had a name: Boyd Crowder.

About a week after Raylan had killed Bo, Boyd had dropped into one of Raylan’s dreams for the first time.

_Raylan and Boyd were walking through a shaded wooded area with a hilly terrain. Raylan could see scattered sunlight shining through the tree canopy._

_“Boyd, you’re not missing the sun already, are you?” Raylan knew instinctively it was a dream, but also a visitation._

_“Nah, I think you’re setting the scene here Raylan,” Boyd said._

_“If that’s the case, then what the hell am I wearing?” Raylan asked, looking down to find his high school baseball uniform with number 25 appliqued to the front of a jersey with the matching white knee-high pants._

_Boyd smiled unable to hide his fangs. “I always did favor those pants on you.”_

_Raylan rolled his eyes and found himself wearing his favorite jeans, a faded T-shirt, and his hat._

_“What do you want Boyd?” Raylan asked._

_“Raylan, do you believe a vampire can still love God?”_

_Boyd went on to ask him if vampires retained their souls and a host of other spiritual questions._

_Raylan quickly grew impatient with the vampire’s one-sided attempt at a theological debate and woke both himself and Tim up_.

 

That had been a week ago. Since, Tim moved them into a little house in the country outside Lexington.

“It’s defendable,” Tim said, by way of explanation when Raylan asked what was wrong with the suite.

“At least it has a washer and dryer,” Raylan noted.

“That too,” Tim said. “Besides, Vasquez is ordering Nahtoo out of the safe house. She needs a room and somewhere she can shift in private to work with you on your shields.”

And after that, training began.

Nahtoo and Rachel started what they called “training” to build up Raylan’s shields and mental defenses to stop Boyd from getting in his head. He thought of it more like a constant barrage of privacy invasions from the two women. Rachel didn’t know about Boyd’s marks—she just thought Raylan was paranoid other vampires would try to control him like Bo had. Raylan and Tim had lied to Art and Rachel about the new marks; they told them Tim had brought Raylan around with CPR after Bo died. If the Marshals Service knew he was metaphysically tied to Boyd, Art would kick them both off the case. As much as Raylan hated Kentucky, he needed to stick around until they could find a way to free him of Boyd’s marks.

***

 

Raylan checked his watch, then wondered if maybe Tim’s hands on his hips so close to his weapon meant his conversation with Art wasn’t going as well as he’d first thought. They’d been in there a while.

Nahtoo had been sitting at Rachel’s desk; the two women talked too quietly for Raylan to pick up any more than a word now and then. He and Nahtoo were both waiting for Tim to wrap up his meeting with Art. The weredragon wandered over to prop herself against the end of his desk.

“Your man is so scary.”

“I thought you said he was my mate.”

“He is,” she said. “But no one talks like that.” She waved her hand, then laughed.

“You do.”

“I’m learning not to,” she said primly.

Raylan craned his neck to check on Tim again. “So what makes him so scary at this particular moment? You can’t read him.”

“Rachel can,” Nahtoo said.

“He’s not planning to end Art is he?”

“Rachel,” Nahtoo called. “What’s that word again?”

“Private?”

“Sí, it’s private.”

Raylan rolled his eyes. “Like either of you know what that means.”

 

Tim finally opened Art’s door and approached Raylan’s desk, tossing an envelope containing Nahtoo’s new documents to her which would allow her to fly out and settle in New Mexico. She would be staying at Tim’s ranch, but Raylan and Tim were driving back.

“I still don’t understand why we have to take three days to drive back,” Raylan said, as they filed into the elevator.

“It’s quiet now. If we’re going to do this, we need to do it while all the bad vampires are still conniving,” Tim said. “We won’t have time when they move on to the killing-each-other stage of their power transitions.”

Outside Vasquez’s dream of the first preternatural RICO case, their other pending cases had grown cold and would stay that way until new masters stepped up to fill the local power vacuums left by the deaths of Arnett and Bo Crowder. Even if Raylan and Tim weren’t benched, they’d be waiting around for Boyd, Miami, Detroit or the Dixie Mafia to make the first move in Harlan or Frankfort. It wasn’t against the law for vampires to scheme and plot. But Raylan and Tim’s jobs didn’t start until the bodies began to drop.

“Why can’t we fly back?” Raylan asked, again.

Tim just told Raylan, “If I’m staying in Kentucky with you any longer, I want more of my guns, my truck, and _my_ dog.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading, and for leaving comments and kudos. I'm immeasurably happy whenever I see a sign that someone enjoyed this.
> 
> I'm working on Part 2 of this series next and made some really decent strides with the outline this week--enough that I can start writing soon. I don't have a firm timeline for future posting, but I hope to be posting chapters through the fall. Keep an eye on the series, bookmark it, or subscribe... whatever it is you do to keep track of your place and works you like on AO3.
> 
> ** edit 8/29 - italics added to dream. (Don't know where they went when I posted this. Oops, I guess. I came back to see how I applied them to the dream sequence and found them gone.)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fanfic--EVER. I'd appreciate feedback.
> 
> Unbeta'd for the first sixteen chapters. If you see glaring errors, let me know where and I'll fix them.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Necromancer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10985028) by [bulma90_13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulma90_13/pseuds/bulma90_13)




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